


Worse Games to Play

by belmione



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: F/M, Friendship/Love, Light Angst, POV First Person, Post-Mockingjay, Pre-Epilogue through Post-Epilogue
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-03-12
Updated: 2012-11-25
Packaged: 2017-11-01 21:08:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 57,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/361275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belmione/pseuds/belmione
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I expect Peeta's wanted a baby since he was one himself. In this moment I'm not sure how I've said no to him for fifteen years.  Peeta Mellark hasn't smiled like that since the day on the rooftop of the Training Center before the Quarter Quell." My take on Katniss's decision to have children with Peeta. Pre-epilogue, but it will eventually go through to post-epilogue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing. Suzanne Collins owns all the things.

When Peeta first asked me about it, I gave him a short, flat ‘no,’ and rolled over, my back to him.  He didn’t say anything in return.  He knows not to argue with me. My decisions are always definitive, always final.  I thought he might be a bit peeved with me when he didn’t immediately cuddle up behind me.  But when I woke up in the early, dark hours of the morning from nightmares, I found my hand clutching his, vice-like.  Even in sleep, he knows when I need him close.  Just like I know when he’s seeing or hearing things not of this world; things that are a product of old mental scars the tracker-jacker venom left him.  We are each other’s’ crutch.  Both messed up beyond recognition, but able to keep each other going, limping along.  It’s not the most romantic arrangement, but it works for us.  And there is love there.  Beneath the scars and nightmares and delusions and fear, it’s there.   We take care of each other.  It’s been that way since our first games – and it will always be that way.

We glean bits of happiness from our life together, like wringing little droplets of water out of an old rag.  And we try as hard as we can to keep the fear away from the other.  It’s always there.  Fear.  People can only lose so much before they can’t be happy without fear that it will be taken away.  We learned what triggers the other, what to say, and what not to say.  How to minimize the breakdowns, the pulling out of hair, the curling into a fetal position.  Which is why I am surprised when Peeta mentions it again a few months later.  He knows it scares me.  Why does he ask again?  I give him the same answer, harsher this time.  But he doesn’t stop asking.

Every time he mentions it, it’s the same nightmare.  Always the same.  I dream of reaping day.  I dream that the Games never stopped.  I dream of mentoring child after child, and watching them all die year after year after year.  Bloody, wasteful deaths.  I awaken shaking enough to wake Peeta.  His arms tighten around me sleepily; he whispers kind words to me.  He doesn’t realize he’s causing this particular nightmare.

The next time he mentions it, I say more than just ‘no.’  I try to explain.

“Peeta, I can’t.  You know it scares me.”

“Yes.  But I also think it would make you happy.  I really do.”

“It would make _you_ happy.  I’d never stop being afraid.”

“Katniss, I really don’t think anything bad would happen.  I don’t.”

“Every time you even _talk_ about it, I have nightmares about it.  Please, Peeta, leave it be.”

“Okay.”

It is the tone of the word and the look on his face that makes me backpedal.  Total defeat.  A little bit of shame.  And really, what he’s asking isn’t shameful.  It’s so sweet, and bright, and innocent.  So _Peeta_.  I feel bad.  I sigh and Peeta’s eyes brighten.  He knows the look on my face means I’ve rethought something. 

“I’m not saying yes,” I warn him.  He nods once, but his excitement isn’t tempered.

“You can ask me once a year.  Once.  I can’t think about it more than one day a year.  You may never get a yes from me.  But you can ask me.  And I promise I’ll really think about it.”

“You’ll really consider it?”

“Once a year, yes.”

He kisses me so sweetly I want to cry.  I hold it in because it would disturb him.  He’d think I was upset with him.  I just try to kiss him back as warmly.

“Thank you,” he smiles.

“I do love you, Peeta,” I joke.

“Oh, I know that.”

I decide, from then on, to try harder to make sure Peeta knows I love him.

Peeta remembers the date that I said he could ask me.  He asks every year on that day.  The first time, I can’t believe he remembers exactly what day it was.  He always asks casually, trying to act as if he isn’t hoping I’ll say yes.  Never any sweeping gestures, although the cheese buns he makes tend to taste a little more robust on that day of the year.  He never looks me in the eye either.  He doesn’t want me to see first the hope, and then the defeat, in his eyes.  I try my hardest to say no nicely.  I always say no.  And he always says the same thing afterwards.

“Alright.”  It’s always quiet and kind.  It makes me feel sick with guilt.

I keep count of the years.  One, two, three, four.  On year five he asks if I’m ever going to say yes.  I tell him I’m not sure.  Keep asking.  Six, seven, eight.  It surprises me when it hits year ten.  Peeta has diligently asked me the same question once a year for a decade.  He never presses it.  He always leaves it up to me.  I think of what Haymitch said to me once.  That I could live three lives and still not deserve him.  I feel like he’s more right every day.

Year eleven he stops smiling when he asks.  Year twelve, he’s quieter.  Thirteen, fourteen.  On the fifteenth year, Peeta asks me in the middle of the day.  He’s fiddling with some kind of bread in the kitchen.  I’ve just come in from the woods.  This year he sounds a little different.  A little more urgent, but also a bit defeated.  I know what he’s thinking.  I’m getting older.  I’m not old yet, but the years he has left to ask this of me are dwindling.  He asks, for the first time, as if he knows the answer will always be ‘no.’ I didn’t lie to Peeta.  I really do think about it every year.  But I’ve never thought about it as hard as I do this year.  I don’t answer him immediately.  I go upstairs, take off my father’s old hunting jacket and hang it back up.  I twiddle my thumbs for a few minutes on the bed, just staring at the ceiling.  I am still terrified.  I will always be terrified.  I was waiting to see if I’d ever feel better about it.  I never will.  But I try to come up with more reasons to say no to Peeta, reasons beyond just, “I’m scared.”  And I can’t.  I can’t anymore.  I think back on all these years with Peeta.  I love Peeta.  I think, though, that sometimes I’m too cold to Peeta.  Sometimes I think I’m mean to Peeta.  This one gesture will be one of the few really nice things I’ve ever done just for him.  He’s done more than enough for me.

I sit up, decided.  I walk downstairs and lean in the doorframe.  Peeta is still fiddling with his bread, but his face has fallen since I went upstairs.  Peeta thinks I’ve said no.  He thinks by walking out of the room I’ve said no.  I realize he thinks I’ve said a final no.  I just blurt it out.

“Okay.”

Peeta doesn’t look up.  “Hm?”

“Yes.”

It takes a second for it to hit him.  His hands freeze.

“You said yes.  Real or not real?”

Poor Peeta.  My saying yes to him is so unusual that he thinks he’s not in his right mind at the moment.

“Real.  I’m saying yes.”

Peeta laughs.  It’s a thick laugh that speaks of tears.

“I didn’t think you’d ever say yes.”

“Neither did I.  But I’m saying it now.”

One moment he’s standing across the room from me, and the next my feet are about a foot off the ground and Peeta’s clutching me as hard as he can without hurting me.  I let my feet dangle, let Peeta sway back and forth with me.  He’s crying full force now.  In this moment I’m not sure how I’ve said no to him for fifteen years.  I expect Peeta’s wanted a baby since he was one himself.  He kisses me for I don’t know how long, my feet still dangling.  Then he pulls back and smiles at me.  I start crying then.  Peeta Mellark hasn’t smiled like that since the day on the rooftop of the Training Center before the Quarter Quell.  I didn’t know how badly I missed that smile.  All I can think about when I kiss him is how I don’t ever want it to slip away again.

It takes a few months.  I stop policing the amount of contact I have with Peeta.  Before, everything had to be extremely careful.  Now, when that hunger I get climbs up from my belly, I let it take control.  Sometimes the feeling reminds me, perversely, of the acid mist in the clock arena.  It creeps up on me, slowly, silently.  My brain feels foggy.  Close, thick air speaks of rain forest and I inhale deep lungfuls of it and, for once, am glad for its heat.  Muscles start to quiver and twitch.  I can’t control it.  It’s getting closer.  Keep moving.  Breath shortens.  Shallows.  Quick.  Desperate.  Cling to Peeta, don’t lose him.  Not again.  Never again.  My own heart thundering in my ears.  Can’t form words.  Just rough sounds, the kind Avoxes are forced to make.  Muscles seize.  Lungs burn.  Humid heat.  Keep moving.  Don’t stop.  Breathing hard.  Don’t stop.  Panting.  Don’t stop.  Almost to the water, almost there.  Don’t stop, don’t stop.  Water is visible.  Can’t stop.  Collapse in sand.  Can’t keep my eyes open.  _Oh._ Gasp as the first wave hits.  Then another.  Another.  Another.  Another.  They lap at skin.  Hear Peeta’s quick breath.  Sigh.  He’s still here.  Breath starts to calm.  Water cures.  Muscles relax, fingers unclench.  Eyes slowly open.  Lock eyes with Peeta.  Thank God.  He’s alive.  He’s here.  He’s not leaving.  Nuzzle Peeta’s shoulder and don’t move until morning.

At first I’m afraid that I’ve waited too long.  That I’m already too old, despite being in my mid-thirties.  But the day that I feel like fire is crawling up my throat all day, the day I smell the wrong thing and have to throw up in the kitchen sink because I don’t have time to make it to the toilet, I know.  I don’t need a strange test like women in the Capitol used to use.   Even without the upset stomach, years of hunting has given me an animalistic instinct that tells me things before I can work them out myself.  I just know.  I am pregnant.

And I panic.

It doesn’t take Peeta long to find me.  I’ve run to the woods, as I usually do in crisis.  I’m high in a tree, chased there like a scrawny cat fleeing from a slavering dog.  I hear Peeta’s faint voice far below me, calling.

“Katniss?  Katniss?”

I don’t think Peeta really likes the woods.  But he’ll still tramp through them to find me.  He always does.  I watch him look up into the tapestry of branches and brush, trying to find me.  His eyes light up when he spots me.  He immediately lunges for a branch and begins a slow, clumsy climb up the swaying hardwood I’ve lodged myself in.  Bless him, he can’t climb trees.  He’s never been able to.  And he’s still trying.

“Don’t hurt yourself, Peeta.  I’ll come down.”  I hear the quaver in my voice.  It has lost its normal volume, its fortitude.

He gratefully stops his ascent, dropping unceremoniously into a pile of leaves and pine needles underneath my tree.  I skitter down, landing lightly on my feet beside him.  I take his hand, warm, wide, and strong, and lead him somewhere we can sit and talk more comfortably.  I take him to a hill with minimal tree cover and long, soft grass.  We sit together, me and Peeta.  I say nothing.  For a while, Peeta takes his cue from me and also remains silent.   Maybe it’s the shaking hands, or my biting my lip, or my ripping grass out of the ground.  Whatever the case, Peeta eventually has to ask.

“What’s wrong, Katniss?  You haven’t been this shaken up in years.”

I place my trembling, fisted hands on each side of my face, clenching my eyes shut.

“I’m pregnant, that’s what.” I force out of clenched teeth.  Peeta tries to disguise the grin that threatens to envelop his face.  But try he does.  I’m obviously not happy about it and Peeta isn’t about to make me more anxious than I am already.

“I thought that was the goal?”

“It was,” I growl.

“So what’s the problem?  I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

“The problem is that I didn’t really think about it beforehand.”

“You didn’t....Katniss, what?”

“I told you it scared the living hell out of me!  What did you expect me to do?!”

 “I didn’t expect it to be easy, but I didn’t expect a breakdown, either.  I thought you meant it when you said yes.  I wanted you to be alright with everything.  That’s why I left it up to you.  It was all you-”

“Well, it wasn’t _all_ me...”

“Katniss, please.”

Then the hysterics start.  Words tumble out of my mouth without stopping, sentences come pouring out with no breath in between.

“What!?  What was I supposed to do?  You look at me like you do, with that face you do, and you ask me all sweet and quiet and patient for _fifteen years_ running, and I know you want a baby so bad you’re going to burst, and I just want you to be happy and I don’t feel like I’m nice enough to you and I _wanted_ to give you this one thing, so I said yes, and now I’m freaking out because I didn’t really think about it on my end!  Okay?!”

“You did it for me?”

I nod, embarrassed that there are tears on my face now.

“Katniss, I wanted you to be happy, too.  I didn’t want you to do it if you didn’t want to.  That was the whole point of asking the way I did.  Do you not-”  Peeta swallows hard, as if gathering courage to say it.  “Do you not want this baby?  Do you want-”

I shake my head, cut off the end of his sentence.

“I do want it.  That’s the problem.”  

The odd choking sounds I make when I sob start then.  I haven’t cried like this since Prim died.  Not in fifteen years.

“That’s why you’re scared?” Peeta whispers.  I’ve never told him why I didn’t want children.  Peeta has probably just assumed that I’m not the motherly type.  My problem is that I am.  I care too much.  All I can think about is how I can’t have my child end up like Rue or Prim.

“You’re afraid someone will take it away.”

I nod vigorously.

“Who is going to take it?  The capitol is gone.  Real or not real?”

“Real.  But why not?  They took everyone else!  The whole of District 12, save 800 people!  Everyone in our first games save us, half the people in our second!  All of our friends!  Everyone in the Hob! Your parents! Madge! Finnick!  Rue, Prim...”

The last two barely escape me before I can’t really speak anymore.  Peeta puts a heavy, warm arm around my shoulders and presses me to him.  He is the only thing keeping me together.

“I wouldn’t let that happen.  I’d die first.”

I know he means it, but it doesn’t help.

“But, Peeta, they took you, too.  For a while at least.  They even took you.”

Peeta clenches a fist around a handful of grass and shuts his eyes for a moment, wincing.  When he opens his eyes he shakes his head, as if trying to dispel some sort of confusion.

“You loved me by then.  Real or not real?”

“Definitely real.”

He nods.  Peeta just sits there and lets me dissolve into hysteria, unable to do anything else.  The best he is able to do is pick me up and put me in his lap where he has more access to me.  He knows in moments like this, he is the glue keeping me from shattering.  The more of him I have to cling to, the better off I am.  Soon my tears turn into hyperventilation.  Usually, Peeta would be handing me a paper bag at this point, used to this.  But this time Peeta appears to be thinking.  

“What...are you...thinking...about?”  I gasp between breaths.

“I think I’ve thought of a game.  Like my real or not real game.  But for you.  See, you’re so convinced that everyone is going to do the worst they’re capable of.  Which I can’t blame you for.  You’ve seen it happen.  I’ve seen it happen.  But what would happen if, when you started getting scared, you thought about all the good things you’ve seen people do?”

I nod a few times.  I have to do something or I’ll never survive this.  

“Maybe.”

“Let’s try it right now.  What’s the first good thing you saw someone do?  Ever.  Something they didn’t have to do, but did it anyway.”

“That’s easy.  It was you.”

“What, the bread I gave you when we were children?”

I nod.  “I’ve told you before, you saved my family’s life.”

Peeta smiles very softly.  Lovingly.

“Right, so that’s one..  But we can do more than that.  Another.”

“Everyone who took care of my family when I was gone.  During the first games.  Gale and his family and others.”

  “Yeah.  Maybe from someone you didn’t expect?”

“District eleven sending me things my first games.  And Thresh, who didn’t kill me when he should have.  Although, he did kill Clove right before that, so maybe that’s not a good one.”

“No, I think it is.  He only killed Clove because she was cruel.  Thresh had a heart.”

“He did.  But so many of those people died.  The people who did nice things.”

“Yes, but a lot of them are still here.  And there are people you haven’t even met who are the same.  Is this working?”

“A little,” I admit.  

Peeta sits with me on that hill for the rest of the day.  We keep our list going.  Sometimes he mentions things from his own experience, or things I’ve forgotten.  Sometimes I remind him of things.  He lets me think, or talk, or not talk.  For the last hour, neither one of us says a thing.  We just sit in the orange pre-dusk and hear the woods rustle as a temperate, gentle breeze blows.  I rest my head on Peeta’s shoulder, enjoy the mingling scents of Peeta and my woods.  Two of my favorite things.  As orange fades to the blue-black of impending night, Peeta shifts.

“Should we go back?”

I nod and fluidly rise.  He follows me.  I have to go a little slower than normal because Peeta doesn’t know these hills like I do.  I lead him along, my hand in his.  Once we’re past the old fence, Peeta clears his throat.

“So, am I allowed to be excited now?  If you’re still upset, just tell me no.”

I am by no means alright.  But since the hyperventilating has ceased, I decide to give Peeta his moment of elation.  It was all for him anyway.

“Yes, you’re allowed to be excited.”

Peeta’s grin looks like it’ll split his face in two.  He stops dead in the middle of our path and kisses me and I can feel him smiling through it.  I can’t help but smile back a little, despite my unease, when Peeta leans down and kisses my belly.  

“So are you gonna be mad when this doesn’t stay flat?” He grins up at me, one hand a little under my shirt on my stomach.  I roll my eyes.

“I don’t care what it _looks_ like.  But expect me to be pretty pissed when I get too loud and too clumsy to hunt.”

“Yeah, your tree-climbing days are numbered.”

“I know,” I growl.  I _loathe_ the idea that it will only be a few months before I’ll be physically unable to traipse through the woods like I usually do.  I can nearly read Peeta’s mind.  He can’t wait to watch me get awkward, uncoordinated, round, and slow.  It will probably be hilarious on Peeta’s end to watch quiet, calculating, stealthy Katniss turn into the human equivalent of a roly poly.  

“I said you were allowed to be excited, not to humiliate me.  We are making a rule right here, right now, that Peeta says nothing when Katniss gets too big to function normally.”

Peeta doesn’t stop giggling for a few minutes.  I don’t laugh with him, but Peeta can tell I’m not angry because I let the corners of my mouth quirk up.  

“Peeta.  Seriously.  It’ll be bad enough for me not to be able to go into the woods.  I need you to help me preserve a shred of dignity, please.”

He nods, although a chuckle escapes every now and then.

“I promise I won’t say anything.”

“Thank you.”

Peeta and I meander back to the old victor’s village, hand in hand, watching smoke snake up from chimneys in town.  So few houses are occupied now, but District 12 is growing again, albeit slowly.  I think about what District 12 will look like when this child is grown, and when their children are grown.  I hope one day, one of my grandchildren, or great grandchildren, will know the District 12 I knew.  Or maybe one that’s even better.  It makes me smile, to think about it.  I look over and Peeta’s smiling too.  I don’t know if he’s thinking the same thing, or if he’s just smiling because I am.  It doesn’t really matter.  I take in the blue-green twilight, with a line of orange on the horizon the exact hue of Peeta’s favorite color.  I smell woodsmoke and keep watching it curl up towards the sky just like the mist does around the low, round, tree-covered mountains here in 12.  I lean into Peeta, close my eyes, inhale gentle, balmy air and I feel safe.  I’m home.


	2. Chapter 2

*First Trimester*

I always thought that coping with the looming threat of starvation was the single most maddening thing I’ve ever coped with.  To know why your mother is tired, why your sister is weak, to know how to fix it, and not to have the means to do so.  But this might be worse.  To have food available and to be unable to keep it in your body is infuriating.  I am about to come unhinged.  Peeta works all day, with little success, trying to make things that my stomach won’t reject.  There are a few things that work.  Cake, of all things.  Some bread.  Thankfully the cheese buns have passed the nausea test.  Meat is like swallowing syrup of ipecac.  I am forced to survive on starch and sugar.  And I’m still getting thinner than I was before I got pregnant.  I’m driving Peeta to distraction with worry.  But then, Peeta is suddenly convinced that I’m made of glass and will probably behave as such until this baby is born.  If he had his way, I would be confined to the house where no harm can befall me, and would only be allowed out of bed periodically.  He hasn’t said this as he knows better than to even mention it, but I know he’s thinking it.  Peeta has always been ridiculously protective of me and protective of children in general.  Having the two rolled into one package is overload for him.

My days have turned into an interesting sort of monotony.  They are monotonous in that the flow of events stays the same.  It is the same as it has been for the last fifteen years.  However, my pregnancy usually disrupts the flow just enough to make things interesting.  As if the child I’m carrying, who isn’t anything more than a mass of strangely-formed cells at this point, is already thinking up ways to worry and play pranks on its mother.  I’m not sure if I’m hoping the child retains this personality when it’s born or not.

My day starts the same way.  Wake up.  Throw up.  Every single morning.  Of course, the nausea doesn’t limit itself to the morning, contrary to popular belief.  It continues throughout the day.  It’s just the morning that’s the worst.  As I’m retching, feeling like I’ll throw up half of my vital organs, Peeta appears.  I think the sound wakes him up.  As much as I roll my eyes over how hard Peeta worries about me, having him appear beside me every morning helps.  He makes sure my braid hasn’t fallen over my shoulder, ensures that no stray wisps of hair get too close to my mouth.  One of his hands is always on my back, rubbing gentle circles, easing some of the tension that builds up from my continuous gagging.  Peeta always has comforting words, too.  Sometimes they’re sleepy, kind, and quiet.  Sometimes they’re funny.  Sometimes they’re bright and encouraging.  Sometimes they just acknowledge that this sucks.  Anything he says is always the right thing for the moment.  Peeta hasn’t lost his way with words.  

When I’m done vomiting, Peeta guides me backwards into his lap.  There’s always a little cup with water and mint in it for me to wash my mouth out with.  Then I’m handed a cool, damp cloth and I run it over my face, which is always burning from the exertion my body has put me through.  He slowly, gingerly helps me up from the bathroom floor, and holds me steady when I get a little dizzy.  I’m led downstairs where I’m given a spoonful of a dark brown syrup, a home remedy for nausea that families in District 12 and District 11 have used for centuries.  I was told by my mother when I was very young that it has been around since before the Dark Days.  She said people used to drink it by the barrel, putting it in water just because they thought it tasted good.  Another sign that people back then obviously didn’t care what happened to generations after them.  So wasteful.  But they were right about one thing; the stuff does taste wonderful.  And it helps a little bit.

Then there’s breakfast.  It is always something Peeta baked the night before.  Usually bread, but sometimes there’s cake.  If only I had known that I would be relegated to eating cake for breakfast.  I’m sure my five-year-old self would see it as a dream come true.  But it usually sits and if it helps me put on weight instead of losing it, it’ll do.  Next, we see if breakfast is going right back up into the kitchen sink.  If so, Peeta does the same comforting things he’s just done in the bathroom.  If not, Peeta eyes me warily until I smile a little at him and he grins back, relieved that I’m not vomiting.  Then he writes whatever is the breakfast item of the day on a little note pad, making a list of things that agree with me.  It’s not very long, but Peeta’s determined to make sure I stop getting thinner and thinner.  

After breakfast, whether I’ve kept anything down or not, I slip on my hunting boots and my father’s jacket and I’m off to the woods.  This worries Peeta.  He is convinced that something will go wrong when I’m in the woods and he won’t know where to find me.  I usually mention that nothing’s happened to me out there in the last fifteen years.  Why now?  He never replies, but I know what he’s thinking.  I’m weaker than I was just a few weeks ago.  Something _could_ happen.  But I can’t not go.  The woods have always been my home.  I want to be there as long as possible before I can’t physically get under the fence anymore.  Peeta also knows this, so he protests relatively little.  I go every day.  Most of my time isn’t spent hunting.  I can’t eat meat without throwing it up, Peeta doesn’t eat much of it, and there aren’t all that many people who live here now to trade with.  I just have to be out here – in the grass, in a tree, by my lake.  Sometimes I think.  Sometimes I don’t think.  But here I am comfortable and here I stay at least half of the entire day.  Sometimes more.  

In the last few hours, I hunt, stuff everything in my ancient game bag, and swing by town on my way home.  Few people live here, but the few who do I know very well.  I’m really the only one who still hunts in the woods outside the district.  Things do come in from other districts with more frequency now.  Before, it was nearly unheard of.  But still, tiny District 12 continues to be a bit neglected and my hunting still makes a decent profit.  That, plus Peeta’s baking, keeps us going.  With so few in the district, resources are allocated fairly evenly and everyone gets along just fine.  Everyone gives me the same warm welcome, but a few comment on how thin I am.

“Katniss, looking a little light lately.  Tell Peeta to feed you more,” says one, accompanied with a good-natured chuckle.

“You look a touch unwell.  Are you alright?” says another, a little more concerned.

I tell all of them that I’m just fine.  I’m not sure why, but I don’t want to tell anyone what’s going on.  Not yet, at least.  I am exasperated by the time I get to my last customer, Sage, a woman who moved here from District 6 a few years ago.  District 6 still produces medicine for Panem, but they’re also allowed to train doctors now.  About seven years ago, a huge diaspora of trained medical personnel spider-webbed out from District 6, making a pretty good business of providing medical care to districts that had previously been made to rely on primitive home remedies.  Sage was the only one who thought to come to District 12.  I often wonder if Prim would’ve ended up like her, a trained doctor, schooled in some faraway district and sent out to work in places like District 12 who need doctors so badly.  We would’ve had someone here if my mother hadn’t moved out to District 3.  But I like Sage, and she gives a good price for various plants she needs that I find out in the woods.  Sage opens the door and immediately purses her lips, grabs my wrist, and drags me inside.

“Get up here,” she demands, putting me on a little scale.  Everything happens too quickly for me to protest.  She balances the weights on the scale and writes down a number.  Then she hands me a bottle full of little capsules.  

“You’re losing too much protein and you’re too thin.  Take these.  And I’d better see you in a week, or I’m coming to find you.”

“What-” I start to get a little miffed.  Being told off by someone ten years younger than me is hard to swallow.  

She rolls her eyes.  “Just do it.  And if you don’t, I’ll tell Peeta to make you.  Now, what’ve you got in there?” She gestures to my bag.  I forgot that while Sage does have Prim’s healing hands, she’s got a personality closer to that of Johanna than my sister.

I grit my teeth and open up my bag.  Sage and I haven’t interacted much over the years besides trading game and plants.  But I have a feeling that she’s not going to leave me alone now that she’s concluded I’m too thin.  

Sage ends up with a few bushels of herbs and two rabbits.  She insists that the capsules are a gift, one she expects me to put to good use.  I grudgingly accept them and stalk off towards home.

The next week proceeds in the same fashion.  The capsules do not cure the nausea, although Sage didn’t even tell me exactly what they were for.  I don’t seem to gain any weight either.  Maybe they’re giving me the protein she said I was losing.  I’m not sure.  Peeta has given up experimenting to try and find food that will not make me sick.  Instead, he only gives me things that are on the list of previously approved foods.  I still can’t keep some of them down.  I hate watching him look so helpless.  He wants so badly to make me feel better and he can’t.  I try to smile at him a lot this week so, if anything, he knows that I know he’s trying and that I appreciate him for it.

I don’t go see Sage the next week.  I still do not want people to know, although I think I have worked out why.  I know that pregnancy is delicate this early.  I know that mine seems to be giving me a lot of trouble.  I don’t want to see the pitying looks around here if something happens.  Peeta and I already get enough of them.  I’ll have enough trouble consoling Peeta if it goes that way.  I don’t need anything else.

Sage does not come find me like she threatened.  Things stay blessedly the same.  Stagnant, almost.  I have forgotten about her two weeks later.  I’m more concerned about Peeta now.  My illness seems to be affecting him as much if not more than it is me.  I am troubled as I walk towards the woods, hoping its greenery and air and open space will help me think of a way to help Peeta.  I am absorbed enough that I barely hear the movement beside me.  I turn quickly and find Sage appearing from behind a tree on the edge of the meadow in front of the fence.  Sage did come find me, as promised.  Just a week late.  

“Yes?” I ask, unceremoniously.  If it sounds rude, I don’t care.  I have enough going on without the young doctor trailing me.

Sage frowns and looks me up and down.

“They’re not working.  Unless you haven’t been taking them.”

I growl.  “I am.  What are they supposed to do anyway?”

“Protein supplement.  But you’re even losing muscle mass, so they’re not working.  You can’t keep them down, can you?”

I grudgingly shake my head.

“How many weeks are you?”

My mouth is instantly dry.

“What do you mean?”

Sage looks at me, deadpanned.

“You know what I mean.  Answer the question.  How many weeks pregnant are you?”

I relent under Sage’s unamused gaze.

“Um.  I didn’t count, but I think seven or eight?”

“Okay.  And why have you not come to see me?”

I know I sound highly annoyed when I answer.

“I didn’t really want anyone to know about it.  Just in case...”

“Understandable.  But your being this weak and sick is a recipe for that kind of thing to happen.  And if you’re worried about Peeta, which it looks like you are, you’re not helping him by not seeking help yourself.”

“Okay, fine!  Help me.  What are you going to do?”

“Well, for one, I’m going to let you go into the woods because you’re comfortable there and I need you to rest a little.  While you’re out there, I’m going to see Peeta and tell him what you need to be eating.  We should have you feeling better in a couple of days.”

With that, Sage turns on her heel and strides off in the direction of my house in the victor’s village.  

I don’t stay in the woods for too long.  Long enough to rest a little like Sage told me to.  But I am ridiculously curious as to what Sage is telling Peeta to do with me, so I head back home with absolutely nothing in my game bag and no detours into town.  When I walk into the kitchen, Sage and Peeta are sitting at the table.  Peeta has his notepad out and he’s writing furiously, like an overachieving grade school student.  He is impossibly eager and hopeful.  He perks up when he notices me.

“Katniss!  Sage says she thinks she knows how to help you keep things down!  I don’t know why we didn’t ask her before-”

“I heard,” I roll my eyes, interrupting.  There are few things I dislike more than being fussed over.  So, of course, I decided to marry Peeta.  The fussing never ceases.  He’s lucky I love him.  I’d kill him otherwise.

“Oh.  How?” Peeta asks.

“I got cornered before I made it to the woods and was told that you two would be teaming up against me.”

“Sorry,” Peeta apologizes to Sage for me.  “She doesn’t always like being taken care of.  She doesn’t mean it, I promise.”

“Yes I do.”

Peeta just laughs a little.  

“You’re a brave man, Peeta, letting that one get pregnant.  The hormones are only going to get stronger.  Just remember, duck and cover.”

“No, if she decides to go after me, I’m gone.  Her aim’s too good.  My only defense is camouflage.”

“Better paint like the wind, _sweetheart_ ,” I snap.

“Alright, alright, I’m sorry.”  Peeta quickly puts his hands in view, palms up, surrendering.  I scowl and plop down in a chair, arms crossed.

“Don’t worry, she’ll be in a better mood when she can keep some food down.  She’s hormonal _and_ hungry.  I probably wouldn’t cope half as well.”

“Are you going to stop talking about me like I’m not here?”

“No, because we’re done anyway.  Peeta’s got instructions on what to do.  I’ll be around here next week since I can’t seem to trust you to keep your word.  And come find me if anything else crops up.”

“I will,” Peeta answers for me.  Sage nods once and is out the door.

“Are you really mad at me?” Peeta always has to make sure that he hasn’t actually upset me.  I make a mental note to do more of that for him.  

“No.  I’m just generally annoyed.”

“Okay.  Well, I’m going to cook you something.  Sage says you should be able to keep it down.  And she says that you should take this too.”

He slides more capsules my way.  District six doctors are trained more in high-tech Capitol medicine than anything else.  I grudgingly take one.  

Peeta has something in front of me in record time.  It doesn’t smell objectionable.  I take a hesitating bite.  Then another.  I eat the entire thing.  I do indeed keep it down.

“What’s in it?”

“Ginger and something else she gave me.  I never knew ginger was a natural nausea suppressant.”

Somewhere in a vague memory, I think I remember my mother saying that.  

“But it’s alright?  You don’t feel sick?”

“Not really.  I don’t feel normal still, but I don’t think I’m going to throw it up.”

Peeta sighs and rubs his face with one of his hands.

“Thank god.  Katniss, you had me really worried.  I was scared something would happen.  You weren’t eating _anything_ and you looked so sick.  I mean, you still look really weak, but at least you ate something substantial.”

“I didn’t want to scare you,” I mutter.  “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.  I’m just glad this seems to work.”

“Let’s hope it keeps working.”

“Yes,” Peeta nods vehemently.

I rarely say things like what I tell Peeta right now.  But he seems so relieved, and still so worried.

“Peeta, please don’t worry about me.  I don’t like seeing you get so upset.  I’ll be alright.”

Peeta looks at the table for a moment.

“Promise?”

“Of course.”

Peeta nods, obviously still shaken up.  He sleeps especially close to me that night, huddled around me as if trying to protect me from an invisible assailant.  He wakes sometime during the night and looks around wildly, trying to find me.  I can tell he’s seeing other things right now, some of the few phantom hallucinations he still has.  I put both hands on either side of his flushed face.

“Peeta.  _Peeta_.”

“Katniss?!  Where are you?”

“Right here.  I’m right here.  Do you see me?”

“No.”

“That’s alright. I’m fine, I’m right here.  Just breathe for a minute.”

“But, they’re trying to take you!  They’ll-”

“Shh, Peeta, no one is going to take me anywhere.”

“But-”

“Peeta, when have you ever seen anyone make me do something I didn’t want to do?  Truly.”

All I hear from Peeta is quick breath for a moment.  Then he nods.

“That is true.”

I can’t help but chuckle a little.  “Too true.”

Peeta nods, eyes still a little wild.  After a moment, they clear a bit.

“Wait, I can see you now.”

“Good.  Then you know I’m here and I’m fine.”

“Yes.  That was just a nightmare.  Real or not real?”

“Real.  Honestly, you’re so good at this now you hardly need to ask me.  It’s real most of the time you ask,” I smile softly at him.  I push a few sweaty, blond curls back from his forehead.

“I want to make sure, though.”

“Which is fine with me.”

Peeta just sits and calms down for a moment.

“Alright, I’m okay now.”

“Good.  Do you think you can sleep?”

He nods.  “Yeah, I think I’m alright.”

Peeta reclines and puts his arm across the pillow.  I settle myself in the crook of his arm, pressed up against his chest.  I let him play with my braid until he falls asleep.  I follow soon after.  

The next day is considerably better.  I’m still a little sick in the morning, but breakfast stays down just fine.  After his scare last night, Peeta seems to be feeling better about everything.  He is even relatively unconcerned when I go out into the woods.  

I am feeling well enough today to be able to think about all this.  Being pregnant.  It’s strange to me.  I suppose I spent too many years trying to avoid even thinking about it that I don’t know what to think now that I’m here.  Today I am not panicking, or hungry, or nauseous.  Today I am able to wonder about how I feel about things.  I sit by my lake, wanting to feel some ghost my father’s presence.  As if that echo of him will tell me how I should deal with this.   I wonder if my father was scared to have children.  If he was perpetually terrified of losing us.  I’m not sure.  All I know is that he loved us with everything he had.

“Maybe that’s all I have to do,” I mumble aloud.  I am so scared of loving this child because I’m afraid that I’ll lose it.  But now I think that maybe the alternative is worse.  The child exists now.  No going back on that.  Now that it exists, I can choose to keep my distance from it to preserve myself, or love it.  I think it would be a great injustice to distance myself from this child because I’m afraid.  It would make what started as an unselfish act become a selfish one.  I suppose I’ll have to let go and love this child.  To do otherwise would be cruel.  

“Well, I guess we’re stuck with each other, come hell or high water,” I say to my stomach.  I feel a little silly.  But I also feel as though I’ve been ignoring the fact that there is a life in there.  I feel the need to address it.

I sit for a while, propped up on my elbows, just staring into shallow, muddy water.  I watch a little group of tadpoles dart around the shallows where I sit, swimming furiously with tiny, half-formed legs.  I laugh just a little at how delicate, uncoordinated, and strange they seem.

“But I guess you don’t look a whole lot different right now, do you?”  I direct at my stomach.  I resolve to find something to call this child so I can stop referring to the poor thing as “it,” “you,” or “they.”  

I hunt just enough today to keep suspicion down in town.  Although, all I really feel like doing is walking around and enjoying the strangely good day.  People notice that I’m feeling better.  I’m nearly smiling when I make it back home.  I’m early enough that Peeta isn’t in.  Sometimes he goes out to get things while I’m off in the woods.  Flour, icing sugar, paints, brushes.  I inspect a painting that he’s been working on in another room.  I think this room was supposed to be meant as a formal dining room, but Peeta and I eat in the kitchen, so we turned it into something of a studio for him.  I’m happy to see that the painting of the day is a happy one.  Some days he paints the Games.  Sometimes his tracker jacker hallucinations.  Often he paints me.  It is no exception today.  The scene is a little mundane, but as always, Peeta breathes life into it.  It’s me at the kitchen table just this morning, looking a little thinner, a bit more gaunt than usual.  But I look happy.  I look relieved.  It’s a hopeful little piece.  I look around the room, wondering how long Peeta will be.  I notice a bit of red paint on the drop cloth on the floor.  It’s still wet, so he must not have left too long ago.  It’s not until another drop joins it that I realize it’s not paint.  It’s blood.  


	3. Chapter 3

**__**

Fear crawls out of my belly, seizing my heart, drying my mouth, sending a cold sweat down me.  I race up to the bathroom, yanking my boots off, running out of my hunting pants.  There’s blood on them.  I stand between the bedroom and the bathroom, panicking, trying furiously through hyperventilation to remember what my mother used to do in this situation.  What she did when young, sobbing, bleeding mothers came to her door, wondering if she could do anything.  Sometimes she could help.  Sometimes not.  I think I remember her lying them down on the kitchen table like she did all of her patients.  Except they had to stay there.  I think I remember her telling them not to move, to stay lying down.  Instinct tells me that’s the best I can do.  Do everything I can to prevent jarring my body into further action.  I yank a towel from the bathroom and lay myself gingerly down on the bed.  I’m afraid to move any more.  Not even to go get the phone.  Besides, no one in town has one.  Only the victors village and the mayor’s house before it burnt down were ever equipped with them.  I have no choice but to wait here until Peeta gets back.  Then I will send him down to get Sage, bring her back up here.  I have no choice but to wait and grapple with the fear.  I sit here for an hour, an hour and a half.  I wonder why every good thing that ever comes into my life must invariably be threatened.  I wonder if I did something wrong.  I wonder how I will deal with Peeta.  What in the world will I do with Peeta?  I am inconsolable with fear and the threat of loss by the time I hear the front door open.

“Peeta,” I croak.  I can hardly speak, I am sobbing and choking and hiccuping so hard.

“Katniss?” I hear Peeta call from downstairs.  I know he didn’t hear me.  He must’ve seen my bag.  I thank god that Peeta’s perceptive and wait for him to find me.  

“Katniss?”  His voice is more urgent upon seeing my boots on the stairs.  I never leave my shoes hither and thither like that.  I can’t even reply.  I hear his gasp as he rounds the corner and sees me.  Me huddled on the bed, feet pressed on the headboard, curled over on my side protecting my stomach, sobbing to the point of choking, with a blood-soaked towel between my legs.  

“Peeta, go get Sage.  Quick.”

I hear no reply.  I look behind me and Peeta’s hand is digging into the doorframe.  His eyes are clenched shut.

“Peeta?  Peeta, listen to me, you have to go get Sage.”

He shakes his head back and forth as if trying to clear it.  He opens his eyes very slowly, seeming confused.  Why is he standing there?  Why has he not already run out the door?

I reach out to him.  Maybe if I can just take his hand or something, he’ll realize what’s going on.  But I stop short when I see his eyes clench shut again.  I look at my hand, sticky and dark crimson with a light covering of my own blood.  I realize.  Right now, I look like everything Peeta fears rolled into one.   I look like someone has hurt me, how I’m sobbing and just lying here huddled over.  But I realize, with the blood on my hands, I probably look just like one of his hallucinations.  The early ones, where I was a muttation, where I was a tool for the Capitol to use against him.  I don’t think he’s connected me with that for a long time.  But I realize I’ve just forced his brain to make the connection.  So I have to get him to realize what’s happening, get him back out the door, and do it without his becoming violent.  I swallow some of my sobbing.  I have to be clear and calm with Peeta if I want this to work.  I need it to work and I need it to work quickly.

“Peeta, what are you seeing right now?”

Peeta shakes his head wildly.  “A lot of things.”

“Okay, what do you think is going on?”

“I don’t know.  I don’t know if someone hurt you, or if you really are a mutt and hurt someone else.  I don’t know.”

“Do you trust me to tell you the truth?”

“Maybe.  I think so.”

“Okay.  Well, I’m not a mutt, Peeta.  I didn’t hurt anyone-”

“How do I know?”

“You’ve lived with me for fifteen years now, Peeta.  Have I ever hurt anyone in that time?”

“No.”

“Do you think a mutt would be able to live with someone for fifteen years and not hurt them?”

“...no, I guess not.  So someone hurt you?”

“No, not real.  No one hurt me.”

“But, the blood-”

“Peeta, I’m pregnant, remember?  Do you remember that?”

Peeta doesn’t answer for a moment.  I’m about to ask again when he finally does.

“Yes.”

“Okay, well something’s wrong.  That’s where all the blood is coming from, Peeta.  No one did this.  It’s just happening.  That’s why I asked you to go get Sage.  She might know of a way to stop it, okay?  If you don’t go, I’m probably going to lose this baby.”

This jars Peeta.

“Lose it?  You’re losing the baby?”

“I don’t know, Peeta, I might be.”

“That’s why the blood’s there.”

“Yes.  And if I bleed too much, you might lose me.”

Peeta’s blue eyes widen.  He shakes his head.

“No.  I’ll go get Sage.  I’m not losing you.”

I breathe a sigh of partial relief.  I’ve gotten Peeta back to normal.

“Thank you.  Just go as quickly as you can.”

But I’m speaking to an empty room.  Peeta’s already turned tail and run right back to town.

It is only a few minutes before I hear the door open again.  I hear Sage’s light, quick, cat-like footsteps on the stairs followed by Peeta’s heavier, thundering ones.  I close my eyes as a calm, cool hand presses lightly on my forehead.  

“When did this start?”

Sage’s voice is just as quick as normal, but it’s lost its bite.  It is business-like, direct, no-nonsense, but calm.  Sage cares about nothing except what the problem is and how to solve it as quickly as possible.

“Almost two hours ago.”

“Has the bleeding picked up significantly, or is this about the same as it was a few hours ago?”

“It’s picked up a little, but not a lot, I don’t think.”

“Has there been any cramping or any pain at all?”

“A little.”

“Were you home when this started?”

“Yes.”

“Alright, so you came up here to lie down almost immediately, correct?”

“Yes.”

“And you’ve had this towel here since?”

“Yes.  I brought it from the bathroom when I came to lie down.”

“Let me see it.”

I drag the towel out from under me and hand it to her.  I grimace.  The bright white towel stained scarlet with blood makes me sick.  Sage, however, seems immune.  She examines the towel almost casually as if it were a stray flower or a blank piece of paper.  She nods once, discarding the towel.  It lands in a heap on the floor, a red and white splotched mess.

“Turn around, feet by the footboard.  Peeta, will you come here, please?”

We both obey without a word.  Sage is unequivocally the boss in this room right now.  Neither of us is going to protest or question.  

“Peeta, if you wouldn’t mind stacking those pillows so she’s propped up a little?  Yes, that’s perfect, thank you.  And if you’ll just stay there with Katniss.  Maybe hold her hand since she’s had a hard day?”

Peeta puts my cold, shaky hand between both of his warm, steady ones.  I don’t look at him.  I’m afraid to see the look on his face.

“Katniss, feet up here.  Lie back.  Yes, like that.”

I close my eyes and press Peeta’s closed hands against my temple.  I thought after being in the hospital as many times as I have that I’d be used to a certain level of invasiveness.  But this is new and frightening and bloody.  I hate it.  It takes everything I have not to come unhinged right now.  Eventually Sage pats my leg, indicating that I am allowed to take my feet off the bedposts.  I do not open my eyes.  I do not want to see either of their faces.  I do not want to hear what Sage has to say.  But Sage says it anyway.

“Well, it could be worse.  You’re bleeding a good bit, but you’re not dilating, so that’s good.”

“Just tell me what that means and what’s going to happen,” I blurt through gritted teeth and stray tears.  I don’t have the patience for this.

“It means you’re probably not currently miscarrying, but you could.  I need to take you down to my office to make sure.”

“Is it going to make things worse if I move?”

“Not at this point, no, since you’re not dilated.  Just don’t move too vigorously and it shouldn’t make anything worse than it already is.”

“Is it bad?”

“I don’t know yet.  I need to get you down to my office now.  You’ll probably be there for tonight.”

“Okay.  Can Peeta come?”

“Of course.  I’d actually rather not leave him alone.  Peeta?  Would you mind putting just a change of clothes into a bag for yourself and Katniss?  Plus something to sleep in?”

“I’ll do it now.”

“Alright.”

Peeta has a little bag packed in minutes.  He helps me up off the bed and walks the entire way with one arm around me, as if he’s afraid I’ll fall apart if he lets go of me.  Sage’s office isn’t much of an office.  Her practice is very small--little more than a converted house.  She lives upstairs.  But she managed to bring bits of technology with her to District 12 and it’s made a world of difference.  District 12 had to survive on primitive medicine before.  

“Just lie down here,” Sage points me to a bed in the corner of the practice.  There are only about ten total in here.  I am the only patient in here right now.  There’s a machine  close to my bed that makes me shiver a bit.  It reminds me of the things I saw in the hospital in District 13.  Unfortunately for me, that seems to be the machine Sage is after.  She keeps gliding some part of the machine over my lower stomach, staring intently at a screen.  She nods once.

“Well, the baby’s still alive.  That’s good news.  But you’re still bleeding.”

“So what does that mean?  Am I alright or not?”

Sage sighs heavily.

“I don’t know.  Unfortunately, Katniss, we’re just going to have to wait and see.  That’s why I wanted you here at least for the night.”

“So, what are the chances that I’m not alright?  What are the chances that I’m going to lose it?!”  I’m getting impatient.  I want Sage to just tell me what all of this means and spare me everything else.

“About fifty-fifty.”

I just look down at the floor for a minute.  Fifty-fifty.  A complete toss-up.

“Is there anything you can do to make the odds any better?”

“No.  Nothing more than bed rest and even that isn’t always effective.  Any drug I could give you probably wouldn’t change the odds.  The effect would be so minimal it’s not even worth it.  I’ll take a blood sample, but any information I get off that isn’t going to come immediately.  The effect will be retroactive.”

“So I just have to wait.”

“I’m sorry.”   

I don’t say anything.  I don’t look at her.  I don’t cry.  I can’t do anything.  

“Katniss?”

“I heard you.”

Sage nods and seems to understand that I don’t want to talk about this.  I want to do what I always do and clam up.  

“Well, I’ll be checking back with you every hour or so.  I’ll be upstairs, so if something happens, send Peeta for me.  If you can get some rest, do that.”

Sage disappears upstairs, leaving Peeta and me alone in the long room with the beds lining the wall.

The silence is nearly too heavy to bear.  I can feel Peeta’s eyes on me.  I don’t know what to say to him.  I know that if I’m scared, he’s so many times more frightened.  This is so important to Peeta.  If it were just me, I would be terribly sad, but I would move on.  It is Peeta and the knowledge that he will be irreparably heartbroken if this ends badly that makes me react as I have for the past few hours.

“Are you mad at me?”

The question feels like a punch to the stomach.  Peeta has asked me that too many times over the past few weeks.  I feel so guilty in this moment that I feel like the walls will crumble in around me.

“No, Peeta.  Why would I be mad at you?  You haven’t done anything wrong.”

“Because all this was my idea.  And I kept pushing you about it until you said yes.  You didn’t want this.  You did it for me.  And now something’s wrong and if it keeps going wrong, I might lose you.”

Peeta buries his face in his hands.  

“You only asked once a year.  That’s not pushing.  And I said yes.  How is it your fault if I said yes?  I asked you just the other night, have you ever seen me do anything I didn’t want to do?”

Peeta says nothing.  He just keeps his head in his hands.  

“I don’t think I’m going anywhere, either.  I think you’re stuck with mean, snappy Katniss for a while yet.”

Peeta cracks a little smile at that.  

“I don’t think you’re mean.”

“Good answer,” I joke.  I shiver a little bit.  It’s chilly in the long, sterile room.  Peeta wordlessly climbs up to sit beside me on the bed.  I huddle against him to try and warm up a little.  I’m not sure if he’s supposed to be up here, but I’m sure that I don’t care.  I just rest against Peeta’s shoulder for a while and listen to his heartbeat.  After a while, he drags out a sketchpad that he managed to stuff in our little bag before we left.  I’m glad.  I like watching Peeta work.  I always marvel at how instinctual it seems.  His hands seem to already know what to do before he starts.  I love to watch images flow out of pencil and paint and frosting.  I love to see what looks like a random bunch of lines, or a blob of color suddenly transform into something recognizable.  I just sit and watch Peeta sketch, watch the quick, light strokes of his pencil turn into a picture.  I doze off like this, gently lulled into sleep by the gentle jostling of Peeta’s arm against my cheek.

Sage wakes me a few times to check on me.  I don’t remember much of what she says as I am half-asleep.  I just keep leaning on Peeta and let her do what she needs to do.  I think she takes my blood at some point.  I remember a little, sharp pain in the bend of my elbow, so she must have.  I don’t really wake up until much later.  It takes me a moment to realize what’s going on.  I hear voices, but not ones I recognize.  Except Sage, I hear her asking questions.  I open my eyes and look up at Peeta, questioning.  He’s still wide awake.  I idly wonder if he’s been staying awake purposefully to take care of me.

“Sage has another patient coming in.  You can go back to sleep.”

But I’m awake now.  I rub my eyes a little and turn to watch what is going on.  I see a flustered woman standing just two beds over explaining something to Sage.  She’s gesticulating wildly at the bed.  When she shifts her weight to another foot, I realize there’s a little girl sitting on the bed.  I can’t see much, but I can see that the girl is only about seven or eight.  She has bright red hair that hangs in braided pigtails.  Her gray eyes dart back and forth between Sage and her mother.  The only snippets I catch of the conversation are the final ones.

“I’m sorry, I can’t leave them alone.”

“It’s alright.  Leave her here for tonight.”

The woman, who has hair the same color as her daughter’s, nods gratefully and rushes out the door.  Sage sits on the bed beside the little girl, examining her arm, then her leg.  I realize that the girl’s pale skin has been burned.  I grimace, wondering what happened.  I know what burns like that feel like.

“Tell me again what happened?”  Sage asks.

“Um, my aunt was at our house helping my daddy because he broke his leg...”

“Yes, I remember that.  I came to your house to set his leg just a few days ago.  Do you remember that?”

“Uh huh.”

“Why don’t you tell me what else happened?”

“Well, my aunt was cooking for us and she had a pot of hot water.  And our cat ran by when she took it off the stove and he almost tripped her.  The water spilled a little and I was right there and it hit my arm and my leg.  Am I going to be okay?”

“You’re going to be fine, sweetheart.  I just need to look at this, put some medicine on it, and make sure you’re not going to get an infection.  That’s all.”

“Okay.  Will the medicine make it stop hurting?”

“For a while, yes.  It may hurt some in the next week or so.  That’s just what burns do, unfortunately.  But the medicine should help.”

“Okay.  I have to stay here all night?”

“Yes.  That’s so I can make sure everything is okay, and so your aunt can still help your dad, your brother, and your little sister at home.”

“Oh.”

“Well, I’m going to go get you some medicine and I’m going to bring some food down here, too.  You don’t sound like you’ve gotten dinner yet, and I know they haven’t.”  Sage gestures towards us.  

The little girl nods and Sage goes back upstairs for a moment.  She comes back down juggling a few plates.  I smile a bit, glad for some familiarity.  District 13’s hospital always had strange, plastic trays with tasteless, nutritionally balanced food.  Here in tiny District 12, the doctor lives upstairs, cooks herself, and brings dinner down on her own plates.  She sets the first, smaller plate down on the table next to the little girl.  I hear a small, treble “thank you,” from that direction.  Sage comes over to us with two more plates.  We thank her as well and she checks on me while she’s here.  

“Any changes?” Peeta asks cautiously.

“Not that I can tell,” Sage shakes her head grimly.  

“What time is it?” I ask.  I know it was still light when we got here.

“About 8:30.  I’ll be back in an hour, as usual.”

Before Sage departs, she puts medicine on the little girl’s arm and leg.  I can smell the salve from here.  It is the same medicine Haymitch sent me in my first games, when I burnt my leg.  Sage covers the burns with light bandages and disappears once more.

I can taste ginger in what Sage has brought us.  She’s cooked dinner for all of us with my stomach in mind.  I tell myself to remember to thank her when she comes back down.  Sage may be short and terse with people, but she obviously cares.  She reminds me of Johanna so much that I almost miss her.  Almost.  I chuckle, remembering fierce, callous, tactless, sometimes hilarious Johanna and wonder where she is right now.  Peeta chuckles beside me.  I look up at him, questioning.  I wonder if he’s making the same mental connection that I am, or if it’s something else.  He sees me staring at him and explains.

“She’s curious.”

I follow his gaze across to the girl.  She is shooting us periodic glances, trying not to look like she’s staring.  

“Well, there’s nothing else to look at.  She’s probably bored,” I answer.  

“She’s probably lonely,” Peeta continues.  He’s always more sympathetic than me.  I’m going to have to learn to soften up a little if this child survives the night.

The girl looks over again.  She starts, blushes, and quickly looks away when she’s caught.  Peeta chuckles.

“Hi.  What’s your name?”

Peeta always knows what to say and how to ease tension in a room, even if it’s something as simple as asking someone their name.  

“Hazel,” she murmurs.  

“Nice to meet you, Hazel.  I’m-”

“Peeta Mellark,” Hazel finishes.  Peeta nods patiently.  We are used to everyone knowing who we are.  Even the children in District 12 know us, although they don’t always know exactly what we did to become so famous.

“Then you probably know Katniss, too, right?”  I raise myself up on my elbow to nod once at her.  She nods vigorously in return.

“Yes!  My daddy and my aunt tell me about you sometimes.”

“I hope they’re not saying bad things about us, Katniss,” Peeta exclaims in mock-worry.  Hazel giggles.  

“No!  Nice things!”

Peeta smiles.

“That’s good to hear.  So you’re stuck here for the night like we are, then?”

“Yes.  My aunt can’t stay with me because has to help take care of my dad and my brother and sister.”

“Oh, so the lady who came in here is your aunt?”

“Yeah.  Everyone thinks she’s my mom, though, since our hair’s the same.”

“Ah, I see.  So what happened?”

“I got burned because our dumb cat ran in front of my aunt when she was holding a pot of hot water.”

“Katniss had a pretty dumb cat for a while, too.”

I finally say something.  I don’t always know how to talk to children.  Hell, I don’t always know how to talk to people in general.  But I try to make sure they know I’m paying attention.

“Yeah, his name was Buttercup.  Sometimes he was very smart.  But mostly pretty dumb.  He was a really, really ugly cat, too.”

Hazel thinks my insulting Buttercup is very funny and she giggles about it for a minute.  She unconsciously moves her burned arm and winces.

“It’ll stop hurting after a while,” I tell her.  

“It will?”

“Sure.  I had a pretty nasty burn on my leg once.  I had to use that same medicine on it.  It worked really well.”

“Am I going to have a big scar?” she asks worriedly.

“There’ll be one, but it shouldn’t be that bad.”

In truth, I don’t know what the scar will look like.  The Capitol removed all of my scars after my first games, including the one that would’ve developed on my leg had it been left alone.  Peeta shakes his head.

“I burn myself a lot.  You’ll be alright.  See?”

He holds up his hand.  He does indeed have quite a few burn marks on his hands and down his arm.  Scars he’s gained since we’ve stopped being in and out of Capitol and District 13 hospitals.  Baking for a living results in a lot of burns, even if you’re careful like Peeta is.  But Peeta’s right.  The scars aren’t noticeable unless you look for them.

“Can I see?” the girl asks.

“Sure, come here.”

She hops off her bed and scampers over to Peeta, who is lying on the side closest to her.  I’m pressed up against the wall behind me, still huddled over on my side.  Peeta extends his arm and points out a few scars.

“That’s not that bad,” she says before she gasps.  “What happened to your leg?”

I realize that Peeta’s pant leg has come up a little, and the metal of his false leg is visible.  Hazel blushes and backpedals.

“I’m sorry, my daddy says I’m not supposed to ask questions like that.”

Peeta chuckles.  

“It’s not always a good idea, no, but I don’t mind.  I got a really big cut in it.  It bled a lot.  Katniss tried to help me with it and stop the bleeding, but it took too long to get to a doctor.  It was either lose the leg, or lose me.  I think I got a pretty good deal, don’t you?”

Hazel nods, fascinated.  Peeta, of course, left out that it wasn’t a cut, it was a deep stab wound.  And of course, it wasn’t that we couldn’t get to a doctor, there was no doctor.  There was just me and a scrap of my shirt twisted into a tourniquet with an arrow until the Gamemakers decided the games were over.

“Is that why you’re in here now?” she asks.

“Oh no, that was a long time ago.  Katniss is the one who has to stay here tonight.  I came along to keep her company.”

“Are you going to be okay?” she directs at me.

“I think so.”

“Um, I know maybe I’m not supposed to ask, but what’s wrong?”

I hesitate.  If this takes a turn for the worse during the night, the whole town could know if I tell this little girl.  

“I’m sorry.  It’s just one of my uncles asks about you sometimes in his letters.”

I am also used to this.  Since the entirety of Panem knows who I am, District 12 inhabitants with friends or family in other districts keep loose tabs on me.  Panem wants to know that their Mockingjay is still alive and well.  I idly wonder just how many brothers and sisters this girl’s parents have as she looks worriedly at me.  I don’t know what it is that makes me relent.  Whether it’s that I genuinely want to tell someone, that she’s just too innocently concerned, or that there’s something familiar to me about her gray eyes.

“Well, I’m supposed to have a baby.  But something’s not quite right.  I have to stay here to make sure everything is okay.”

I don’t go into too much detail.  I don’t want to scare the girl.  But she nods knowingly.

“That’s what happened to my mother.  I was little, and my sister was a baby.  That was before there was a doctor here.  She died,” the girl finishes quietly, sadly, and hesitantly.

I am kicking myself.  I try not to scare the child and I bring up exactly what killed her mother.  Hazel seems to notice that I’m upset.

“Please don’t be scared!  I didn’t mean to scare you.  There’s a doctor here now, so you should be fine.  I know you’ll be alright.  My daddy says you’ve always been really strong, since you were little.  I hope the baby’s alright, but even if it’s not, you will be.”

I marvel at the little girl’s absolute confidence in me.  I also wonder now who her father is, although many families tell stories about me regardless of how well they actually know me.  

I can’t really think of much to say besides, “Thank you.”  This seems to please Hazel, though, and she smiles brightly at me.  We talk to Hazel for a little bit more.  She settles herself on the bed across from us, instead of the one two over, so she can talk to us more easily.  Eventually, Peeta asks her a question and gets no response.  Hazel has dozed off.  When Sage comes down to check on us one last time for the night, she cracks a rare smile at the little redheaded girl curled up on a different bed than she left her in.

“I’m going to leave you two to get some sleep,” she tells us.   “But as always, if something happens, you know where to find me.”

Peeta pulls out his sketch pad again when she leaves.  I watch as I always do.  This time he sketches Hazel.  She’s giggling in the picture, freckled nose wrinkled in laughter.  I doze off again watching him sketch, wondering what is so familiar about the little girl with the red pigtails.

When I wake again, it’s to movement around my stomach.  I’ve flipped over onto my back during the night. Sage has taken the liberty of running that machine over my stomach while I’m asleep.  

“Good morning,” she chirps.

“You could’ve woken me up,” I grumble, unhappy to have been awoken like this.

Sage shrugs.  “Why wake you up when I could do my work without you grousing at me?”

“I don’t grouse.”

“No, you’re right.  You do more than grouse.  You’re one of the most uncooperative patients I’ve ever dealt with.”

“What? I do everything you tell me to!”

“And I have hell to pay for it.  Well, since you’re awake, scoot down here.  Feet up.”

“Could you at least draw the curtain?” I growl.

Sage rolls her eyes and yanks the curtain around us, drawing a thin barrier between my bed and the rest of the room.

“Never mind that one out of the only two people who could see you _if_ they wake up is on the same side of the curtain as you,” Sage snipes.

I grit my teeth and pretend I’m somewhere else as Sage goes about her examination.  I sigh exasperatedly as the exam goes on a little long for my liking.  Sage notices.

“Sigh all you want, but you’re going to have to get used to this over the next eight months or so.”

I am formulating a biting response when I realize what Sage has said.  I sit bolt upright.

“What?  You mean-”

Sage smiles a little.

“You stopped bleeding sometime last night.  You’re fine and baby is fine too.”

I laugh I am so relieved.

“Now, hold on.  You’re going to have to be a little more careful.  Make sure you eat what Peeta tells you to.  Your little sojourns into the woods need to be a little less stressful.  You may have to walk a little slower, do less running and tree-climbing.  But if you do that, you should be alright.  Of course, if something happens again, do exactly what you did before and send Peeta for me.”

I nod.  “I will.  Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome.  Wake up Peeta and get dressed.  You’re free to go.”

Sage slips out of our little curtained space.  I dress with lightning speed.  Once I’m dressed, I shake Peeta.

“Peeta.  Peeta, wake up,”

He blinks a few times at me.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.  Sage says I can go.”

“What?”

“Everything is fine.  I’m fine.  The baby’s fine.”

It takes it a moment to sink in.  But when it does, he stands and latches onto my neck, clutching me for I don’t know how long.  I just stand there with him and listen to him sniffle.  I figured there’d be tears.  Poor Peeta.  If I’ve had a hard twenty-four hours, then his have been unbearable.  But it’s alright now, and I tell him so.  He nods against my shoulder and lets me go, smiling widely as he does.  He kisses me then, still smiling.  I’m smiling too by the time he pulls back.

“Come on, let’s get the hell out of here and go home.”

He chuckles at me and nods.  We almost have our little bag packed when Sage ducks around our little curtain.

“Sorry to bother you, but someone is very concerned about whether you’re alright, Katniss.”

I look and see Hazel peeking out from behind Sage.

“It’s alright,” Peeta smiles.  Sage goes ahead and pulls the curtain back, opening up the room once more.  Hazel darts towards me.

“My aunt is here to take me home, but I told her I had to ask you if you’re alright first.”

“I’m just fine.  You were right.”

She grins at me before pausing.

“Does that mean your baby’s okay too?”

“Yes.  Everyone is okay.”

“Good.  I can tell my uncle that when he asks.  I have to go home now, but I’m glad everything is okay.”

“Me too.”

Hazel has run off before I can say anything else.  Sage shakes her head.

“Wild child.  That girl never stops moving.  Just like her whole family.”

“Really?”

“Mmhmm.  I don’t know if you know her father.  Rory Hawthorne?”

I stop dead in my tracks.

“That’s Rory Hawthorne’s daughter?”

“Yes.  So you know him?”

I ignore her question.

“And who is her aunt?”

“Posy Hawthorne.  The redhead you saw in here last night.”

Posy.  Last time I saw her she was five.  I realize she must be twenty now.  I had no idea that the rest of the family had moved back to District 12.  I haven’t been in contact with any of the Hawthornes since Prim died.  It is with that thought that I suddenly realize who the uncle is that Hazel kept mentioning.  I can feel my eyes widen.

“Are you alright?” Peeta asks quietly.  He knows exactly what’s going through my head right now.  Every painful connection that I will never be able to shake.  I suppose that the Hawthornes realize that as well.  Maybe that’s why I was never told that they had moved back to twelve.  They know as well as Peeta that I will never stop wondering if it was Gale’s bomb that killed Prim.  But it is a perverse pleasure to see a member of the Hawthorne family again.  To know that Gale asks about me, even though I’m still, after fifteen years, so angry at him and so hurt I could scream.  He probably even shares the sentiment.  I have to laugh or I know I’ll cry.

“Katniss?  Are you alright?”  Peeta reiterates warily.

I shake my head.  “I don’t really know.  Ask me again later?”

Peeta nods once.  We thank Sage again and walk out of her practice into a warm day.  Peeta walks again with an arm around me, refusing to let go.  I’m glad for it.  I don’t say much.  At one point I laugh that bitter laugh again.  Peeta looks sadly at me.

“I’m sorry.”

There is so much in those two words.  Sorry that I lost my sister.  Sorry that I lost my best friend.  Sorry that he can’t give me what I lost with those two.  Sorry that I almost lost this baby.  Sorry that all that loss makes me scared to be happy again.  But he’s here.  Sweet, gentle, loyal Peeta is here and will be until the day he dies.  Peeta will stay with me always.  That’s why I love him.  In a rare gesture, I tell him so.

“I’m sorry, too.  But you’re here and I love you, so it’s alright.”

Peeta smiles his sunny smile.

“I’m glad.”

Instead of going home, Peeta and I duck under the fence and venture into the woods.  Peeta sits down with his sketch pad and I sit with him.  And it is here in my woods, leaning against Peeta as he sketches, watching the sun play across his hair and eyelashes that I am, if only for a moment, truly happy.


	4. Chapter 4

*Second Trimester*

 

Today, for the first time in a month and a half, I feel normal.  Peeta is beside himself he is so relieved.  No stray bouts of nausea, no fear, no bleeding, no worrying.  I don’t expect it to stick around.  I’ve become grimly used to feeling my worst.  I’m pleasantly surprised when the rest of my week continues in the same fashion.  I can eat normally, move normally.  The only indication that anything is abnormal is a nearly unnoticeable tightness in all of my clothes.  I choose to ignore that for now.

For Peeta, this is all wonderful.  Because I am no longer unwell, he feels that he is allowed to be excited now.  I don’t temper his excitement.  I don’t share it, but I indulge him as much as possible.  Plus, he doesn’t rope me into it all that much.  He just hums while he works now, and I notice brighter colors in his paintings and on his cakes.  He does lean over the table to kiss me a little more often, but I don’t mind it.  Sometimes it even makes me smile.

For Peeta, this is wonderful.  For me, this normality marks a bit of a race against the clock.  Before, I was too ill to think about much more than powering through my day.  Now that I can think clearly, I am already dreading the day that I will become housebound.  I know it will happen.  Right now, I can still run, can still wriggle under the fence, can still climb.  For most, the temporary loss of these things wouldn’t be unbearable.  For me, it will be.  I even put time in the woods as part of my list of requests when I agreed to be the Mockingjay.  It is of utmost importance.  I chafe if I can’t be outside.  So I spend longer in the woods these days, trying to make up for the weeks I won’t be able to be here.  The woods helped heal me after the war ended.  They continue to.  I can only hope that being taken away from them won’t work in reverse.

But I can feel the clock working against me.  The tightness in my clothes that was once unnoticeable is uncomfortably apparent two weeks later.  Three and a half weeks later, I have to start wearing Peeta’s shirts.  They’re quite loose now, but I know eventually even these will be too tight.  I’ll have to get new clothes, or just wear the few old dresses I have of my mother’s.  The ones she wore when she carried me, and then Prim.  I don’t know whether it will be worse to have to go into town to buy bigger clothes, or to have to wear a dress.  I decide I’ll think about that later.

A week after that, I start eating.  I don’t stop.  At first, I don’t really notice it.  It isn’t until the day I catch Peeta staring at me, wide-eyed that I notice anything abnormal.  I realize that Peeta put down a plate of pastries only ten minutes ago and I’ve gone through every last one of them.  If Peeta hadn’t started staring, I would have no idea that I’d just inhaled a heaping plate of food.  I’ve never had a weak appetite, but I realize that anyone putting away that much food that quickly is impressive, even in District 12 where starvation used to be common.  Peeta blinks at me a few times.

“Peeta, it would be hazardous to your health to keep staring at me.”

He starts and looks away quickly.

“I’m sorry.  There’s more in the oven if-”

“Don’t finish that sentence.”

I would feel bad about my snappishness if Peeta didn’t start giggling.  I refuse to humor him and I stalk off upstairs to throw on my hunting boots.  I know why he thinks this is hilarious.  This is the first very pregnant thing I’ve done.  Besides vomiting, anyway, which scared the living daylights out of Peeta.  When I come back downstairs, there is indeed another plate of the things sitting in the middle of the table.

“I’m sorry I stared.  You can have more if you-”

“Peeta, that whole plate will be on your head if you finish that sentence.”

Peeta sucks in his laughter for a moment to preserve himself.

“Yes ma’am.”

He turns around to keep working.  I take advantage of the lapse in giggles and his turned back to snatch one more and then I’m out the door like lightning.

The trees are now a patchwork of bright oranges, vibrant reds, and soft yellows.  I’m glad that if I’m trying to spend as much time as possible in the woods, that I get to do so in autumn.  There’s something different about the air and the light in autumn.  It smells different, looks different.  Different than any other season.  It’s my favorite.  Maybe it’s because I’m glad that cool, blustery days replace the humid, hot ones of summer.  Maybe it’s because I swear I can smell the woods more keenly at this time of year.  Maybe it’s the colors.  Maybe it’s the way the leaves rustle more.  Whatever the case, my outlook always improves as soon as I hear my feet crunch in the dead leaves on the forest floor.

I’m immediately up in a tree, settled in a sort of cradle created by three large, strong branches.  I’m still peeved somewhat with Peeta, but mostly peeved with the situation in general.  I decide here that I don’t particularly like being pregnant, even on days where I’m feeling alright.  People treat me differently.  Like I’m weaker.  I know that, physically, I am somewhat.  But I dislike being babied.  I’m tired of being watched, tired of Peeta waiting for me to do “pregnant” things that he thinks are cute.  For now it’s only Peeta.  Eventually everyone will be doing it.  I have never been thought of as cute before this point and I don’t intend to start now.

“I’m sure you’re wonderful and I’m sure I’ll like you, but I wish you didn’t require staying in there quite so long,” I huff at my stomach.  It’s true.  I don’t dislike the idea of having a child.  I just wish I didn’t have to suffer everyone else’s reactions to my pregnancy for so long.  

 “I wish you didn’t eat so much, too.  Your daddy is never going to let me live this down.”

I keep staring at my stomach.  It’s not large enough yet that other people can see.  They just think that I’ve gained a bit of weight and are quite pleased to see my face looking a little rounder.  But I can see the little bump around my lower stomach.  For the first time I wonder what it will be like for this child to have me as a mother.  It is the first time I worry at all about my parenting skills.  I know Peeta will be a perfect parent.  But I am not so sure about myself.  I am quiet, strange, hard to understand, a little harsh sometimes.  I hope that it won’t be difficult for my children to get close with me.  I know it’s difficult for everyone else, but I hope that my children will feel differently.  I am not naturally a nurturing person.  I am absolutely naturally protective, but not nurturing, or patient, or soft.  All I can hope is that Peeta will make up for what I lack in parenting skills and that I’ll still be good for something at the end of the day.  I shake my head.

“Sorry, but insofar as mothers go, you got the short straw, kid,” I tell my stomach.  Again, I have got to find something to call this child.  I’m not looking for a real name.  Just a nickname.  Something beyond, “you,” “it,” and “kid,” to use until the child is born and we can properly name it.  I glance over to my left and can just barely see the edge of my lake through the brush.  The thought reminds me of something.  I laugh out loud.

“Tadpole,” I smile.  Wasn’t I just saying a few weeks ago, sitting by the lake, that the child probably looks a little like a tadpole right now?  I laugh again to myself.  It’s odd, but it fits.  Plus, I know Peeta will probably find it a little distasteful, which makes it much more fun.  I settle further into my tree, satisfied.  Sooner than I’d like, I have to head back home.  I’d never admit it to Peeta, but I’m hungry again.  Of course, I could easily get something out here.  But Peeta’s baking is too alluring and I’m back under the fence before I know it.  As always, I stop by town on my way.  People are starting to look at me a little longer than usual, frowning very lightly.  It must be the combination of my now-round face and my small arms swimming in Peeta’s shirt.  In the next two weeks, they’ll start asking questions.  When I stop by Sage’s, she pulls me in to take a closer look at me and make sure everything is normal.  I get a satisfied smirk from her.  Apparently I’m up to par.  Sage has made a habit of doing this.  Every week or so, she drags me in to check up on me quickly.  The day is unpredictable.  Some days she lets me go.  Some days, I get sucked in.   But I know she means well, so I protest relatively little.  

By the time I get home, Peeta is peeking in the oven, checking on some dish he’s concocted.  At this point, I can’t find it within myself to care whether he giggles at me or not.  I am ravenous.  But Peeta seems to be over his giggle fit for now.  He just smiles at me warmly.  I eat as impressively now as I did this morning.  I have an uneasy feeling that this prodigious appetite is going to stick around for a while.  But as long as Peeta doesn’t bug me about it, I should be alright.

That night I sit at the table with Peeta and watch him work on an order.  It’s one of my favorite things to do.  It’s a wedding cake.  I don’t know the couple well, although I know who they are and I know their names.  Sometimes Peeta lets me help him make decisions about the cakes he designs.  Tonight, he lets me pick what flavorings go in the cake since the couple in question don’t have a preference.  Peeta always makes little samples and gets me to taste them.  The one I pick tastes like autumn.  Cinnamon, pecans, and what I think may be a little bit of pumpkin, iced ivory with creamy icing.  Peeta nods and smiles softly.  “I thought you might pick that one.”   

I watch him mixing batter in a massive bowl.  Watch as he pours it into circular pans, each one smaller than the next, to make tiers for the cake.  Each time, he pours half a pan in, sprinkles in a streusel made of sugar, cinnamon, and pecans, and fills it up the rest of the way.  He won’t let me finish off what’s left of the batter, though, as it has raw eggs in it and he’s terrified that I’ll get sick.  I get impatient. “You always let me do it before.  Why not now?”

He rolls his eyes in a very rare gesture and answers, “Katniss, you weren’t pregnant before.  Be patient, there’ll be other things to taste.  I’ll let you take care of the icing bowl later, if you want.”

I cross my arms and huff at him.  He cracks a smile and I scowl more darkly.  Peeta is unfazed and I soon let my false scowl dissolve into a smile as I watch Peeta keep working.  He takes the tiers out of the oven, sets them on the counter in neat rows to let them cool.  I smell the pumpkin and am already about to go mad.  I hear my stomach rumble.  Peeta hears it too and starts the laughing again.  This time I can’t blame him.  I finished my dinner, at most, two hours ago.  This is ridiculous.

“Are you kidding me?” I throw my arms out in disbelief, looking straight at my belly.  “Tadpole, this is out of control.”

Peeta nearly chokes.

“What did you just call our child?”

I feel a smile creeping onto my face.  I was waiting to watch this reaction.

“Tadpole.  Because it looks like one right now.”

Peeta wrinkles his nose.

“Please tell me you’re not thinking of naming it that.”

I roll my eyes.

“Of course I’m not, Peeta.  It’s just a nickname so I can stop calling it “it” all the time.”

Peeta keeps wrinkling his nose.

“What’s so bad about it?”  It’s my turn to start laughing now.  Peeta looks so funny, standing there, back against the counter, looking mildly disgusted.

“Katniss, tadpoles are baby frogs.”

“...I’m aware.”

“ _Frogs,_ ” he reiterates.

“Yes, frogs.  Frogs can be cute.”

“Frogs are _not_ cute.”

I cannot breathe I’m laughing so hard now.  Peeta is so upset over this one nickname.  He pouts across the room while I laugh silently, doubled over.  When I can breathe normally again, I speak.

“Well, you’ll have to get used to it because I intend on using that nickname.”

“You can.  I’m not.”

“Well, what are you going to call it, then?”

“I’m going to think of a real name for it.”

“Well, good luck with that since we don’t know whether it’s a boy or a girl.”

“I’ll make it gender neutral.”

But even Peeta cannot keep a straight face through this utterance.  We’re both laughing now, me cackling like a hyena, Peeta’s giggling bubbling up in the room.  I cannot remember the last time we laughed like this.

Peeta continues with his cake, his work punctuated by periodic chuckles.  I watch him stack the layers of the cake on top of one another.  He anchors each to the other layer with sticky icing.  Once he has all the tiers stacked- there are five in all- he ices the whole thing.  I like this part.  I like to watch blobs of messy-looking icing turn into a smooth, ivory armor around the cake.  I like to watch Peeta carefully smooth the icing with his knife, concentrating hard, eyes squinted.  Next, Peeta has to let the cake sit.  The icing has to harden so he can continue decorating the cake.  It is cool enough outside that Peeta can just put the cake next to a window and wait on the icing.  In the mean time, he starts making sugar flowers.  He makes them out of some sort of malleable dough.  I don’t know what’s in it or how he makes it, but I know it’s edible, tastes good, and can be moulded to look like real flowers.  The flowers he makes tonight all go with the autumn theme.  Chrysanthemums, Marigolds, Zinnias, and a few shapes made to look like autumn leaves.  He paints them with some kind of edible pigment, in golds and oranges and reds.  They always look frighteningly real.  He quickly has the whole table covered in them.  He sets these by the window as well, as they also have to set.  Peeta is true to his word and when he comes to sit across from me to wait on the cake, he brings the icing bowl.  I manage to quash the huge grin that threatens to overtake.  I am sparing at first with the icing.  I don’t attack it like I want to.  I’m not weathering another laughing fit from Peeta.  But it doesn’t get past Peeta.  He hasn’t completely figured me out over the fifteen years we’ve lived with each other, but he’s definitely gotten better at reading me.

“You should just eat whatever you want whenever you want to.  Take advantage of it now.  According to Sage, by the time you hit seven months or so, you won’t be able to do that.  She says that baby will be so big, you’ll be hard pressed to fit a cupcake in there, let alone a whole plate of pastries.”

I continue for a minute in the same fashion, ignoring him.  But after a moment, I ask, “She said that?  And how bad did she say it would get?”

“Yes, she said that.  She said in the last three months, the baby’s just going to get bigger and heavier.  The bigger it gets, the harder it’ll be to eat anything without feeling like it’s sitting, as Sage said it, in your esophagus rather than your stomach.”

Lovely.  Another eating complication.  I grumble unintelligibly and start scraping the bowl like I want to.  Peeta smiles a bit.

“If you laugh again, I’ll kill you.”

He smiles wider, but is smart enough to quell his laughter.  

“Noted.  Just don’t fill up too much on the icing.”

I ignore him and scrape the bowl clean.  Peeta sits with me, still waiting on the cake.  After a moment he asks, “Have you actually thought about names?  Real ones, not nicknames.”

I huff at his jab at my nickname before answering.

“Not really.  Have you?”

“Yes, but I couldn’t come up with anything good.”

“Well, the best I’ve come up with is a nickname you hate.  And it’s not like my parents set a good precedent either.  Prim got the good name.  I got the weird one.”

“And I didn’t?  Though, I like your name.”

“And I like yours.  It suits you.”

“Thanks.  In any case, neither of us has any ideas.  We should probably start thinking.”

“Maybe.  Even though, I’m not sure I can choose a name until I see Tadpole.  Does that make sense?”

“I think so, but explain anyway.”

“Well, my parents didn’t name us until right after we were born.  They didn’t have a name in mind already.  They said there was no point thinking up a lot of names because once we were born, they might find out that none of their ideas suited us.  The name has to fit.”

Peeta nods, digesting the thought.

“I like that.  Waiting for the name.”

“Me too.  Let’s do that.  Make sure we get it right,” I smile a bit.  Peeta smiles back and nods.  

“Yes.  So we avoid names like mine.”

I chuckle a bit.  “Your name is fine.  It’s the District 1 kind of names I’m worried about.”

Peeta blanches.  “Ugh, yeah.  No Glimmers or Cashmeres, please.”

“I would actually call the child Tadpole first.”

“So would I.  And that’s saying something.”

Peeta walks over to check on the cake.  He concludes that it has sit by the window for long enough and he brings it back over to the table, along with the veritable bouquet of sugar flowers he’s made.  This is my favorite part.  I like to watch Peeta just know where to put everything, how to arrange it.  If it were me, the cake would look like a jumbled mess.  But Peeta knows how to make everything look appealing and effortless.  The flowers crown the whole top tier of the cake and cascade down the layers.  A plethora of them circle the bottom tier as well.  The cake looks beautiful.  Peeta comes around the table to stand behind me and look at his cake from my angle.

“Good?” he asks.  I nod.

“Definitely.  It’s gorgeous.  I like the autumn thing going on.”

Peeta smiles.  “Thanks.  Hopefully they do, too.”

“There’s no way anyone wouldn’t like that cake, Peeta.  Or anything you make.”

Peeta just grins in response.  He crosses the room to start cleaning up.  I sit and stare at the cake.  Really, Peeta doesn’t charge anything for the amount of work he puts into these things.  He just likes doing it.  I think if he could, he wouldn’t charge anything at all.  I am smiling my closed-mouth smile, looking at the cake when I hear something slide across the table in my direction.  Peeta is standing across the table from me, and has slid a plate in front of me.  I look down.  It’s a little cake, a bit larger than my hand.  It fills the bread plate Peeta has placed it on.  It’s decorated like the bigger cake to my left.  It’s got three sugar flowers on the edge of it, one of each type.  There’s a red-orange leaf on it too, that branches out from underneath the flowers and covers the face of the cake, the vibrant orange and smooth ivory a pleasing contrast.  Peeta gets a rare, wide smile from me for this.

“I told you not to fill up too much on the icing,” he chuckles.

“You seriously underestimate how much Tadpole eats.”

And Tadpole does as promised.  I manage to eat the entire mini-cake.  Peeta just nods at the empty plate.

“Well done.”

“Thanks.”

After a moment, I join Peeta by the sink and help him dry dishes.  Peeta’s dirtied a lot of them today baking and trying to keep up with my appetite.  We do this in companionable silence.  I’m putting away a dish and I feel my stomach flip.  I curse under my breath.  I’ve overindulged and my nausea is probably coming back.  It happens again and I think I might be sick.  But the third time is different.  I don’t mistake it for stomach trouble.  I feel an upheaval inside me, like a wave, spinning once in my belly.  I drop the glass I’m holding and it shatters on the floor.  I back away from the counter.  I am terrified and I cannot get away from the feeling because it’s coming from inside me.  The spinning wave keeps happening.  I do not know why it frightens me, what psychological link has taken place.  But I know that I am suddenly wildly and irrationally horrified.  I manage to sit before the hyperventilating starts.  Peeta is alarmed at seeing me react so strongly to, what seems to him, absolutely nothing.  He is by my chair immediately.

“Katniss, what’s wrong?  Katniss?  Katniss!  What happened?”

I try to answer, but I can’t.

“Katniss?  You don’t have to talk much, just tell me what’s going on.  What happened?”

I mumble unintelligibly.  

“What?”

“It _moved_.”

I start rocking back and forth.  

“Katniss, it’s alright.  Shh, it’s okay.  If you need to say your monologue, do it.”

That’s what Peeta calls it.  My monologue.  My name is Katniss Everdeen.  I am from District 12.  I was in the Hunger Games twice.  I was the Mockingjay in the war against the Capitol.  The Capitol is gone.  My sister is also gone.  She was killed by a bomb.  Gale may have been the one who killed her.  My mother doesn’t live here anymore.  District 12 was destroyed.  District 12 is being built back up.  I live with Peeta Mellark.  I am almost five months pregnant.  My baby just moved.  I am terrified of it.  I have almost five months to go.

  



	5. Chapter 5

My name is Katniss Everdeen.  I am from District 12.  I was in the Hunger Games twice.  I was the Mockingjay in the war against the Capitol.  The Capitol is gone.  My sister is also gone.  She was killed by a bomb.  Gale may have been the one who killed her.  My mother doesn’t live here anymore.  District 12 was destroyed.  District 12 is being built back up.  I live with Peeta Mellark.  I am almost five months pregnant.  My baby just moved.  I am terrified of it.  I have almost five months to go.

I have repeated this seven times already.  I continue, rocking and mentally repeating my monologue.  I am vaguely aware of Peeta, standing next to me, trying to be patient but obviously worried.  The fluttering, wave-like sensation continues in fits and starts.  I do not understand why I am so frightened.  I can’t begin to try to understand right now.  All I can do is rock and repeat my monologue.

After I’ve gotten to the twelfth repetition, Peeta can’t stand it any longer and speaks.

“The monologue isn’t working, is it?”

“Not.  Really,” I force out from my clenched jaw.

“Then we have to think of something else because you’ve got about five months more of this.”

All I can do is nod, already dreading them.

Peeta darts out of the room and returns after a moment with a very old, worn length of rope.  It is the rope Finnick gave me to tie knots with.  I haven’t had to use it in years.  I suddenly get a rush of memory, Finnick brokenly giving me advice.  _Better not give in to it. It takes ten times as long to put yourself back together as it does to fall apart._ I can’t fall apart.  I don’t have that luxury.  I can’t end up like my mother did- in so many pieces she couldn’t even take care of us.  This child isn’t even born yet.  I can’t fall apart before the child is even born.  I can’t be a broken, useless parent from day one.  I have to keep it together.  I snatch the rope with shaking hands and start tying knots.  They’re clumsy and unkempt because my hands are nearly vibrating.  I tie knots and repeat my monologue.  After a while, I am frightened, but I feel sane again.  I am no longer hyperventilating, no longer rocking in my chair.  But I am not comfortable.  I do not feel safe.  I can only keep myself together and even that is still a struggle.

Peeta seems to notice this.  He warily approaches me and puts an arm around me.  It helps a little.  Physical contact grounds me in moments like these.  He hesitates before putting a hand over my belly.  I flinch for a moment before relaxing.  The weight of Peeta’s hand distracts some from the fluttering inside me.  I don’t feel it as keenly.  I let him stay there, glad for the small help.  I know that eventually this will not work.  When the child gets big enough and strong enough to jab me with elbows and kick me in the ribs, Peeta’s hand will not be a distraction.  I will let him stay and help because it won’t be long before the little flutters turn into real kicking.

Soon, the fluttering stops.  I hesitate for a moment before I stop tying knots.  I put the rope down and Peeta looks up, withdrawing his hand.

“It stopped.”

Peeta nods gratefully.  He’s eyeing me worriedly, shaken up by my breakdown.  He’s thinking the same thing I am.  How am I going to survive the coming months?

“What are you going to do?” Peeta finally asks.

“What can I do?”  I can’t think of anything there is to do but try to work through it.  I go to bed that night with the length of rope beside the bed.  Peeta sleeps pressed against my back, arms around me, both hands on my belly.

I carry the rope everywhere, although Tadpole seems to move mostly in the evening.  This is a blessing because my time in the woods is still uninterrupted and Peeta is usually present when the moving starts.  Sometimes, though, Tadpole starts wriggling at inconvenient times.  One day in the next week, Tadpole decides to start doing somersaults while I’m trading in town.  I can’t just collapse and start tying knots and hyperventilating when I have business to attend to.  I have to grit my teeth and try to keep a straight face.  One day it gets bad enough that I come out and ask Sage about the problem rather than avoiding her and hoping she won’t interfere.  I tell her I need to talk to her and she ushers me right into her office, taken aback when I volunteer information rather than withhold it.  I tell her about my crippling anxiety whenever Tadpole moves.  I tell her about my reticence to have children in the first place.  She nods, frowning lightly.

“Well, the anxiety doesn’t surprise me, especially if you were somewhat reluctant to have children beforehand.  Serving as the figurehead in a war at age seventeen certainly doesn’t help on the anxiety front either.  The movement feels invasive and foreign.  All your fears play right into it.  But, of course, that’s beside the point.  The point is to get this so you can manage it.  What have you been doing already?”

“Well, I have this thing I repeat in my head.  When I get confused or upset.  It’s just things I know are true.  My name, where I live.  I start with the simple things and move to the more complicated.  Things like that.  I do that.  And I have this rope I tie knots in.  Different kinds of knots.  It keeps my hands busy.”

“How well does it work?”

“I don’t hyperventilate.”

“That’s still not good.  But, I’m sorry Katniss, this isn’t my area of expertise.  I’m not sure what to tell you other than to keep tying knots.  The only thing I can suggest is asking advice from people you know who were connected with the war.  Is there anyone you know from the war who has had children?  I’m sure they had difficulties, too.  I think you’ll get better advice from people who fully understand.  Better than a doctor who was only six during your first games,” Sage smiles a rare, sad smile.  I forget sometimes that Sage has known who I am since she was six.  She watched me and Peeta in our first games, in our second.  I suddenly wonder what it was like to be such a young child during a bloody war, a war that no child so young has any hope of understanding.  I wonder what it is like to take care of someone who was the figurehead of something terrifying that changed your world forever, turned it on its head, caused death and upheaval.  I’m sure Sage saw the propos of me.  And I’m sure I was terrifying to a six-year old.  I’m sure I stir up frightening memories for her.  I suddenly feel very guilty.  Maybe that’s why Sage is so short with everyone.  She probably had to grow up as fast as I did when I was young.  

“Katniss?”  I realize that I haven’t said anything.  I’ve just been staring at Sage.

“Sorry.  I’m just thinking.”  This time I think about what Sage has suggested.  So many names run through my head.  So many are dead.  The ones who are still living are scattered about, made loners from the war.  I am about to answer ‘no,‘ when I remember.  _Annie_.  Poor, widowed, mad Annie managed to get through a pregnancy.  I’m sure that it wasn’t easy, especially without Finnick there to keep her grounded.  We get letters from her sometimes.  I think it’s time she got one from me.

“Yes, there is someone.  I can ask her about it.”

“Good, good.  Tell me what she says and if it works.”  

“I will.”

Sage nods once.  “Good luck.  Keep me posted on any progress.  And, as always, if anything happens-”

“I’ll come find you.”  This time I mean it.  

Sage nods, businesslike and I turn to leave.  When I get home, I write my letter to Annie.  She will be the first of our old friends to hear about my pregnancy.  Other than the Hawthornes, of course, who I’m sure know via Hazel.  I tell her how terrified I am when Tadpole moves, that I can’t shake the connection between the moving inside me and strange Capitol punishments.  I tell her about tying knots like Finnick taught me to, about my monologue.  I ask her if she had any difficulties like mine.  I ask her if she knows how to quell the terror.  And of course I ask her how her son Killian is.  It is encouraging to know that Annie has a son who is safe, whole, happy, already fourteen and, although I would’ve thought it impossible for anyone before the revolution, carefree.  I know the letter will take a while to get to Annie all the way in District 4.  All I can do is keep tying knots and repeating my monologue while I wait to see if she has any advice.  

As if Tadpole’s gymnastics weren’t enough, I’m getting large enough that Peeta’s shirts don’t hide anything.  Even in baggy clothes, there’s a definite, recognizable roundness to me now.  I look like someone has halved a soccer ball and stuck it on to me.  People notice now.  One frowns at me for a moment before her face clears.  She doesn’t say anything, but is obviously trying not to smile too widely.  A lot of people do this- just quietly realize and go about their business with a small smile.  Some, though, are more direct.

“Katniss, are you-”

I usually cut off these inquiries with a quick, “yes.”

Some just give me a “congratulations,” and a smirk without asking anything.

A few say things like, “About time,” and,  “What took you so long?”

Another chuckles, shakes his head, and says, “Never thought I’d see this.”

Greasy Sae, who is positively ancient and still trucking along, just smiles, laughs a crackling, throaty laugh, and pats my belly twice.  I take care of her now like she took care of me when I first got back to District 12.  It is her reaction that I mind the least. 

One thing is for sure.  Everyone is unbearably excited that I am having a baby.  Word will now start spreading slowly until it reaches the far ends of Panem.  Tadpole might even be a few months old by the time it does, but word will get there.  I know why everyone is so excited.  I have never stopped being the Mockingjay.  I will never escape it.  I am still a symbol of the revolution.  People take cues on how to act and how to cope from me.  If I can heal, if I can find some sort of happiness, if I can have children, have a life after being through hell, so can they.  I do not like this burden.  But I realize now, that even if I hadn’t agreed to put on Cinna’s armor and appear in a few propos, I would still be the Mockingjay.  I was the Mockingjay as soon as I held out that handful of berries.  So I just try my best to be patient and bear it.

Seeing Sage in the midst of everyone’s excitement is calming.  She is as terse and business-like as usual and it’s a welcome change from the hushed elation of everyone else.  Today is a day that Sage drags me in to check on me.  She makes me lie down beside that strange machine and runs it over my stomach again.  She chuckles very quietly at one point while staring at the screen.

“What?”

She nods at the monitor.  “The baby’s sucking its thumb, that’s all.”

“...what?”

She turns the monitor so I can see it.  She’s never told me what she was looking at on the machine.  There are fuzzy, gray shapes on the monitor.  After a moment, the jumbled images come into focus and I see it.  It is small, curled over, and clearly, devastatingly human.  And the baby is indeed sucking its tiny thumb.  I do not know what to do other than stare at the swimming screen.  I am fascinated and terrified and overwhelmed.  I get a rush of realization of the weight of this.  This is probably the single most important, most difficult, most rewarding, and most selfless job I will ever have.  It is terrifying to suddenly understand how much sheer responsibility Peeta and I are now bearing.  

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah, I’m just trying to process it, I guess.”

“Well, you’re doing better than most.  Normally mothers start crying.”

“That would imply that I’m normal.”

“True.  I can print this, you know.  I bet Peeta would love to see it.”

I nod.  “He’ll probably cry.”

Sage actually, fully laughs at this.

“I’ll print it, then.”

She produces a small, square picture with the gray and black fuzzy image on it.  I know Peeta will be beside himself when he sees it.  Sage tells me I can leave.  I thank her for the picture and step out of her office into early evening.  The sun is hanging low in the round mountains here in twelve.  I walk looking at the picture.  I feel a little stupid, but I haven’t thought much about the child as a living, breathing human that we’ll have in our care.  What it’ll look like.  What kind of personality it’ll have.  If it’ll be a lot like me, or a lot like Peeta, or its own person unlike both of us.  I’m also thinking a bit more practically now.  We haven’t done all that much preparation around our house to make way for a baby.  Where is it going to sleep?  What is it going to wear?  We need a crib, we need clothes, blankets and bibs and diapers.  I walk in the house thinking about everything we need to do in the next four and a half months.  I nearly forget about the picture until Peeta asks.

“What’s that?”

I realize I’m still half-staring at it, and I’ve walked in the house muttering to myself without acknowledging him at all.  He’s looking at me curiously, if not a bit warily.

“It’s Tadpole,” I tell him, handing the picture to him.  He frowns lightly for a minute before he makes sense of the shapes.  His eyes widen; then they glisten.  I was right.  Peeta does cry just a little bit.  But he also seems about as terrified as I am.

“Oh my god.”

“Yeah, that’s what I was thinking.”

He hesitates before asking me, “Is it stupid that I didn’t completely clue in until now?”

“No, I thought the same thing.  I wanted to talk to you about that.  We don’t have anywhere for Tadpole to sleep, we don’t have clothes.  Peeta, we haven’t done anything.”

“You’re right.  We should work on that.  We can turn any one of the rooms upstairs into a nursery.”

“Yeah.  Which one, though?”

“I’d say the one across from our room.  So we’re close.  I don’t like the idea of putting the baby way down the hall somewhere where we can’t get to it quickly.”

Peeta is thinking along the same lines I am.  I don’t even like the idea of Tadpole sleeping in another room from us, but the child needs its own space for when it gets a little older.  But if the child has to be in another room, we want it to be within earshot of ours.  I nod again.

“That’ll work.  We’ll need to move that other furniture out, though.”

All the houses in the Victor’s Village came pre-furnished and pre-decorated, with an enormous amount of space and a supposed, dreamed-up purpose for each room.  We have far too much space in here, even for three people.  But unless we want Tadpole’s nursery to look like a sitting room from the Capitol, we’re going to need different furniture and a less garish color scheme.

“I can paint the room, too.  I don’t think that color is a good nursery color.”

“I was just thinking that.  What color should it be?”

“What color do you want it to be?”

“Yellow or green.  But a light one.  No Capitol colors.”

“I like the idea of yellow.  A light, sunny yellow.”

“Me too.”

After that night, Peeta delves into decorating Tadpole’s nursery.  Every day I come home, there is a new development.  The day after we make the decision to paint the room, I come home, come upstairs to take off my hunting gear, and I see that Peeta has drop-cloths on the floor and is busy taping the baseboards and windows.  The next day, I smell wet paint and come upstairs to see Peeta with rollers, priming the walls so the garish, Capitol purple doesn’t show through.  The next day, he’s blanketing the walls in a buttery, baby yellow.  My favorite, though, is the day I come upstairs to see Peeta painting on the largest wall in the room.  I wondered why he hadn’t painted that one yellow.  Now I see.  Peeta is busy painting this wall to look like my woods.  My lake is in on one side, dense forest on the other.  It looks beautifully real.  He’s made sure to put in highlights in the same shade of yellow as the rest of the room, so it blends perfectly.  Peeta notices me after a moment.  

“Is this alright?  Do you like it?”

“Of course I like it.  It’s my woods.  What made you decide to do that?”

“Well, I’ll be comfortable in this room no matter what.  But you’ll also have to spend a lot of time in here.  I know having a baby in the house is going to cut away from the time you have to spend outside.  I figured this might help a little.”

“It looks real.”

“I wanted it to.  Do you think it’ll help?”

“Definitely.  It’s perfect.  Thank you.”

Peeta smiles and keeps painting.  In the next few days, furniture starts appearing in the room.  First, a crib made from a light, blonde-looking wood.  Next, a changing table.  Then a dresser.  Shelving gets installed next.  The day I come in and Peeta is just standing in the middle of the room, I know it’s finished.  The last addition has been a rocking chair.  I step hesitatingly inside.  The room is sunny, airy, and open.  Peeta nods a few times.

“Do you think it’s done?”

“Yes.  I wouldn’t change a thing.”

I sit in the room for a while each day.  I think it’s becoming my favorite room in the house.  I never stay too long, though.  The painted woods are going to be replacing the real ones very soon.  It’s getting harder for me to get under the fence.  I’ve had to dig a little curved ditch under it to accommodate my larger stomach.  Peeta and Sage were right.  The baby is getting bigger and heavier and I’m starting to feel it in the strain in my back. I can’t climb anymore.  I know my center of gravity is now thrown off enough that it would be too dangerous.  I sit in the grass a lot more lately.  It’s getting difficult to carry my game bag around town as well.  Tadpole plus all the game is a lot of added weight.  Tadpole’s movement is a lot stronger than it used to be, too.  It gets to where I have that length of rope in my hand more often than not.  The only place Tadpole doesn’t wriggle now is in the woods.  Maybe the child can sense the lack of tension in me.  I’m not sure, but I am grateful for the calm.

The day that I am out of breath by the time I get to Sage’s, she tells me I have maybe two weeks that I’ll be able to keep doing this.  My time is running out.  I tell her snappily that I’ll keep going into the woods until the day I get stuck trying to get under the fence.  She rolls her eyes.

“Well, don’t call me to help you get unstuck.  I warned you.”

I glare back at her.

In the next few days, I notice that it’s starting to get quite chilly outside.  Most of the leaves have now abandoned their trees and the woods look grayer, starker, spindly and bare.  The next day, there’s a light frost on everything.  Thankfully, though, I’m a little warm most of the time now, so the cold is a welcome change.  The frost even helps me slide under the fence easier.  The frost is patchy, though, as the sun is still warm enough to melt it where it hits.  I do sit in one of the dry, sunny patches in the grass.  I realize that even sitting up with my legs extended, I can’t really see my feet anymore.  I sigh.

“How much bigger are you going to get?” I huff at my round stomach.  I know that’s not a question I really want to know the answer to.  I know that if I think Tadpole is big now, I’m in for a rude awakening in the coming weeks.  Tadpole’s just entering the huge growth-spurt faze.  I don’t look like someone glued a beach ball to me yet, but I’ll get there soon enough.  I lie back, hands folded on my belly, and just watch the clouds for a bit and breathe blissfully crisp air.  I come to later and realize I’ve dozed off outside.  The sun is going to set fairly soon.  I hope that Peeta isn’t too worried and slide back under the fence.  I don’t have anything in my game bag since I dozed off, but game is starting to get scarce as winter approaches anyway.  I suppose I can check all my traps tomorrow and they’ll probably have more to show for my efforts.  I’m passing under a tree when I lose my balance.  There’s frost under it that has accumulated enough to turn into a patch of thin, slick ice.  I manage to catch myself on one of the branches and avoid hitting the ground, but not before my right ankle twists at a violently unnatural angle.  I pull myself up using the tree as support.  I test putting weight on the ankle.  It protests wildly, sharp pain shooting straight up my leg.

I curse under my breath.  I never would’ve lost my balance like that before.  I know how to tread lightly on ice without slipping.  It’s my changing center of gravity that is responsible for this mishap.  I can only be thankful that my reflexes haven’t suffered yet and I was able to catch myself.  Who knows what would’ve happened if I had hit the ground?  But now I have to get myself home on an injured ankle, walking over ice, six months pregnant.

“Better start now,” I growl to myself.  I just want to get home before dark so I don’t scare Peeta to death.  Especially because he’ll come looking for me after dark and he doesn’t tread well on ice with his leg.  I don’t want to cause an injury on his part because I fell asleep in the woods and left late enough that ice started to accumulate on the ground.  I begin my slow walk back, trying to walk close to trees, fences, sides of houses.  Anything that I can lean on.  I can’t put weight on the ankle or I’ll really fall this time.  I still slip a few more times and only stay up by clutching tree branches and fence posts for dear life.  I reach a particularly bad patch of ice and sit down on a tree stump half way across it to try and plan the next leg of my journey.  There’s a tree not too far down, and then a mailbox.  

“This is so stupid,” I spit.

“As if that should be anything new to you,” I hear a sarcastic laugh behind me and wheel around.  Of all people to show up when I need help.  Haymitch, drunk as ever, is staggering around behind me on his way back home.  Peeta and I don’t see Haymitch all that often, though one of us does go to check on him every few weeks.  Peeta’s just been doing that lately because I don’t trust my stomach to react well to the smell inside his house.  Haymitch rounds the stump and lets out a bark of laughter.

“Jesus,” he manages to choke out before the laughter continues.

“I don’t see why this is funny,” I snap acidly.

“I don’t see you for six months and when I find you, you’re talking to yourself on a tree stump, knocked up and wide as the broad side of a barn.  Give me a reason I shouldn’t laugh, sweetheart. I’m all ears.”

“Dammit, Haymitch! I think I sprained my ankle and I’ve been dragging myself along this road for a half an hour!”

Haymitch laughs more, unheeded.  I pick up a heavy little rock and fling it at him.  It hits him square in the nose, hard enough to make him bleed a little.  His hand flies to his nose and he curses.

“Do you want to put my eye out?!”

“No, I want you to shut the hell up and help me!”

“Fine!  What do you want me to do?”

“Just help me get back home!  I can’t put weight on this leg or it goes right out from under me.  I’ve been leaning on trees and fences and mailboxes the whole way back from the woods!”

“What in the world were you doing out there as big as you are?”

“I go into the woods every day, you know that.”

“And Peeta let you go like this?”

“You really think I would’ve listened if he told me not to?”

Haymitch rolls his eyes.  “Of course not.  Katniss doesn’t listen to anyone, she knows what’s best.  And then she wonders why her plans always end like this.  Again, this is why no one lets you make the plans, sweetheart.”

“Do you think you’re sober enough to help me back without dropping me or not?  Maybe you should just go get Peeta.”

“Peeta falls on ice all the time.  I got you through two Hunger Games and a war, I can handle a ten minute walk.”

“Yeah, and it took me almost taking your hand off with a knife for you to clue in enough to help us through the first ones.”

“Just shut up and grab my arm.”

I growl and drag myself up, clutching Haymitch’s arm.  He’s a little unsteady, but I make quicker progress walking with him than I did dragging myself along with tree branches.

“So what in hell made you decide to do that?” Haymitch nods at my stomach.

“It was Peeta’s idea.”

“I guessed that much.  Hate to break it to you, but you’re not exactly the mothering type.  What made you agree to it?  That’s what I want to know.”

“I felt mean saying no to Peeta.  He asked for fifteen years.  I’m not nearly nice enough to him, and he wants children so badly.  I couldn’t say no anymore.”

“You still don’t deserve him.  But this was a step in the right direction, I’ll give you that.”

“You’re so generous,” I snipe at him.

“So how long you got till the little bugger comes out?”

“About three more months.”

“I’ll pray for Peeta.”

“I’m not _that_ bad!”

“Sure you aren’t.  You were just talking to yourself and screaming at me like a banshee.  Even your aim’s better right now.”

“...really?”

“I shouldn’t have told you that.”

“Nope.”

We’ve finally reached our house.  Haymitch half-carries me up the steps and flings the door open.  He stumbles towards the kitchen and plunks me down in a chair.  Peeta comes running from upstairs.

“Katniss, where were you?  Haymitch?  What’s going on?”

“Boy, do you have a death wish?  What were you thinking letting her get pregnant?”

“I’m not mean to him, Haymitch, I’m mean to _you_ because you decided to laugh at me for ten minutes before you’d help me back home!”

Peeta grits his teeth.

“Haymitch, what are you doing here?”

“I’m here because you let her go out into the woods, she went and messed up her ankle, and I got stuck having to drag her pregnant ass home _after_ she screamed at me and made me bleed.”

“He didn’t _let_ me go into the woods, Haymitch, don’t pin it on him.”

“No, you’re right, I should always assume that if something’s gone wrong, _you’re_ the one responsible and Peeta is probably oblivious to it.”

“Would you both _shut up_ for a minute?!”

Haymitch and I freeze at Peeta’s raised voice.  The last time I heard Peeta get angry like this with us was in District 11 during our victory tour when we hadn’t told him about President Snow’s threat.  He stands there, eyes closed, hand pressed to his forehead as if trying to dispel a headache.  Haymitch and I say absolutely nothing.  After a moment Peeta opens his eyes slowly and sighs.  He looks at me.

“What happened?  Explain without the arguing, please,” his eyes dart to Haymitch at that last part.

“I fell asleep outside and left the woods late.  I was on my way home and I slipped on some ice.  I didn’t fall, but I did something to my ankle.  I can’t walk on it.  I had to walk leaning on trees and fences.  I was halfway home when Haymitch found me and helped me get back.”

“Katniss...” Peeta sighs again and closes his eyes once more.  I feel intensely guilty.  I cause so much trouble for Peeta and he rarely says anything about it.  He shakes his head.

“Which ankle?”

“My right one.”

Peeta wordlessly walks over to me and leans down to look at my ankle.  He gingerly unlaces my boot and slips it off my foot.  He peels my sock off and rolls up my pant leg a little.  I can’t see the ankle, but judging from Peeta’s reaction, it’s not pretty.

“Do you think it’s broken?” I ask quietly.

“I have no idea.  I think we’re going to have to haul Sage up here to look at it.”

Tadpole chooses now to start moving, but it’s different this time.  Tadpole moves in rhythmic jerks that startle me.  I dive across the table for my rope and start making loops in it.  I keep jumping every time Tadpole does.  Peeta notices the difference and he eyes me anxiously.

“What’s going on?”

“I don’t know, it keeps sort of jumping.  I don’t know what’s going on.  Do you think it’s okay?  Maybe I hurt it when I fell?”  My hands start trembling as well as my voice.

“Woah, calm down, sweetheart.  The kid’s probably just got the hiccups,” Haymitch says calmly.

“Really?  That can happen?”

Haymitch nods patiently.  “Yeah, babies can have hiccups in the womb.  It’s probably just excited because you’re worked up right now.”

I don’t know how Haymitch knows this, but I nod, calming down a little.  Now, I recognize the jumping movement.  Poor Tadpole’s got the hiccups because I’m so keyed up.  Peeta rests his forehead on my knee for a second, trying to calm himself down.  I’m worrying him to death tonight.  After a moment he stands up. 

“Alright, I’m going to go get Sage so she can figure out what to do with your ankle.”

Haymitch shakes his head and grumbles.

“No, I’ll go.  You have trouble on that leg with the ice out there.  Stay here with her and I’ll be back in a minute.”

Haymitch is up and out the door before we can protest.  Peeta sits tiredly in the chair next to me.  After a few minutes of silence, I ask a question that Peeta usually asks me.

“Are you mad at me?”

Peeta cracks a bit of a smile at my adopting the phrase.

“No, you just worried me and I couldn’t figure out what had happened when you and Haymitch were going at it with each other.  I’ve been worried that something like this would happen and I just keep thinking about what might’ve happened if Haymitch hadn’t found you.”

“I’m sorry.  I should’ve listened to you and I shouldn’t have yelled at Haymitch.”

“I don’t know, he probably deserved it.”

“He kinda did.  He wouldn’t stop laughing at me.  I threw a rock at him.”

“You what?”

“He wouldn’t stop and listen to me so I threw a rock at him.  He shut up after that.”

Peeta laughs a little.  I blanch as Tadpole keeps hiccuping.

“Sorry, Tadpole still has the hiccups.”

“The baby really has the hiccups?”  Peeta grins.  He obviously thinks it’s cute.

“Yeah.  I don’t know, you may be able to feel it.  Come here.”

I realize that Tadpole’s been wriggling around for quite a few weeks and I haven’t once let Peeta feel it.  I don’t think he could the first few times when he had his hand on my belly.  The movements were too small, and now they’re too big for Peeta’s hand to help, so I’ve just been tying knots.  I don’t know why I haven’t thought to let Peeta see if he could feel it.  Peeta hesitates before putting the palm of his hand flat on my belly.  After a moment he starts.

“Did you feel it?”

“Yeah!  I can’t believe it actually has the hiccups,”  Peeta grins.  He keeps his hand there for a while, feeling the short little jumps Tadpole keeps making.  I’m glad that Peeta is having a good time.  I hate it whenever Tadpole moves, but it’s making Peeta grin like a madman, so at least someone is happy.  Peeta stands up when the door opens.  Sage rushes in followed by Haymitch.

“Well, you didn’t get stuck under the fence, but I think this might be more impressive.”

“Spare me please,” I grumble.  “My ankle is killing me, the baby’s got the hiccups, I’m hungry, and I’m not in the mood.”

“When are you ever?  Should’ve thought about all that before you didn’t listen to me,” Sage sniffs.

“I like her,” Haymitch chuckles as he settles in a chair by our fireplace.

It takes everything I have not to say anything to either of them.  Sage inspects my ankle.

“It’s not fully broken, but it looks like you cracked it just a little.  It won’t need setting, but you’re going to need to keep it wrapped up, keep it elevated, put ice on it if you can.  It’s cold enough that you can put some water outside and it’ll ice over.  If it snows in the next few weeks, you can use that, too.  Stay off of the ankle.  Your ankles are already swollen just from pregnancy.  Besides, you don’t have the balance to stay upright if you put weight on it the wrong way.”

“So, how long till I can get up and walk around on it?”

Sage sighs.  “Katniss, you’re not going to be walking around it much besides going from room to room in your house.”

“You mean I can’t go outside?”

“Unless you mean to your front lawn, no.  It’s not a matter of your fitting under the fence anymore, it’s a matter of you stay off the ankle, or you permanently damage it and risk falling.  If you fall with the messed up center of gravity and all this extra weight, you’re almost sure to break something.  And, of course, the closer you get to your due date, the more falling might result in your going into labor prematurely.  Sorry, Katniss, but your stunt tonight sealed the deal.”

I don’t say anything.  I can’t.  I’m officially housebound.  I’m cooped up here for the next three months.  What am I going to do just sitting here for three months?  What do I do when the baby is only calm in the woods?  I know what this means.  This means three months of sitting in front of the fire, getting bigger and bigger, with absolutely nothing to do but frantically tie knots in my length of rope.  No fresh air, no trees, no grass.  Trapped in here like I was in the Capitol, like I was for a long time in District 13.  Nothing to do but sit and try to keep myself together.  

I vaguely hear Peeta thank Sage, hear her leave.  Haymitch says something to me before he leaves, too.  I’m not sure if it’s kind or sarcastic.  I say nothing during dinner.  I don’t move other than tying knots for the rest of the night.  Peeta manages to carry me upstairs to bed, even though I know the extra weight is a strain on him.  I fall asleep without saying a thing. 

I have vivid nightmares where I’m trapped in a cell in the Capitol.  The cell is full of the rose-scented lizard muttations that chased us through the Capitol sewers.  I jerk awake and Peeta is trying frantically to wake me, and then to calm me down.  I haven’t had a nightmare this violent in a long time.  The baby is kicking frantically, upset by my reaction to my nightmare, which makes everything worse.  Peeta puts his hand on my belly and winces.  He knows the movement scares me and he can feel the strength of it.  I see his blue eyes stare at me worriedly, eyebrows knitted together.  He knows how badly this is going to affect me.  He knows what a violent nightmare like this one means.  He knows what it means when I don’t speak.  Sage can easily say that I’m housebound, but Peeta is the one who is awakened by the nightmares, Peeta is the one who watches me stare vacantly into the fireplace, Peeta is the one who sees me look longingly out the window, Peeta is the one who watches me wince and tie knots and repeat my monologue.  I am frightened, I am miserable, and I just want this to be over and he knows it.  When I can’t look at his worried face anymore, I bury my face in his shoulder.  He clutches me protectively.  After a moment, he speaks.  His tone is hushed, but it’s sure, defiant, nearly angry.

“It’s alright, Katniss.  We’ll think of something to do.  Sage is trying to do what’s best, but she doesn’t understand.  I promise, we’ll figure it out.  I’m not having you spend the next three months like this.”

I nod against him, comforted by his confidence if not a bit skeptical.  I don’t know what he plans to do.  I can hardly walk.  All I can hope is that Peeta is creative enough to keep his promise as I shake and repeat my monologue.

My name is Katniss Everdeen.  I am from District 12.  I was in the Hunger Games twice.  I was the Mockingjay in the war against the Capitol.  The Capitol is gone.  My sister is also gone.  She was killed by a bomb.  Gale may have been the one who killed her.  My mother doesn’t live here anymore.  District 12 was destroyed.  District 12 is being built back up.  I live with Peeta Mellark.  I am almost seven months pregnant.  My baby will not stop kicking me.  I am terrified of it.  The baby is only calm in the woods.  I have cracked my ankle and I cannot go into the woods.  I have almost three months to go.


	6. Chapter 6

*Third Trimester*

It is only the first week of my being housebound and I’m already wondering how I’m going to survive eleven or so more.  Peeta does his absolute best to keep me occupied and as happy as possible, but he can only do so much.  He tries to make my favorite foods.  He’ll help me from room to room, wherever I want to go, and he makes sure my ankle is elevated wherever I’m sitting.  I generally follow him about whatever he’s doing.  There’s nothing constructive for me to do.  I’m not any help in the house.  So I usually just watch Peeta paint and finish cakes.  I do like doing it, even if I’d much rather be outside.  It’s a marked change from being parked in the kitchen staring at the fire all day, so I’ll take it.

All of this would not be as much of a problem if not for Tadpole’s moving.  Tadpole is just getting bigger and stronger, and the child has definitely graduated from flutters and light somersaults to full-on elbowing and kicking.  Tadpole is equally as restless as I am and kicks nearly nonstop.  My hands are red and rough from having that rope in my hands all day, tying knots over and over.

What’s really troubling is when Peeta has to leave for short periods of time.  Without anything to do and not even anyone else to talk to or be with, I get much worse.  Peeta usually puts me up in the nursery before he leaves, since the painted woods on the wall do help minimally.  But I’m always frazzled by the time he gets back and he has to spend the next half-hour calming me down and getting me back to a normal state.  If he could, I doubt Peeta would leave at all.  But he has to, although I can tell he tries his best to diminish the frequency of his trips to town.

The only thing I do every day is try and think of ways to either work through Tadpole’s movement or calm it down.  A good day is marked by either less movement from Tadpole or my doing better at coping with it.  I keep looking for a letter from Annie, hoping that she has advice, but knowing that the likelihood is low.  I have an uneasy feeling that this is a grin-and-bear-it sort of situation.

I do get a bit of a surprise one day when I hear the phone in our house ring.  I wonder who it is since so few people have them even now.  I bitterly wonder if it’s Haymitch, too drunk to get out of his house, asking Peeta for more liquor.  That does happen with unfortunate frequency.  I let Peeta get it since I can’t get up and walk to do it myself.  Peeta peeks back in after a moment.

“It’s for you.”

Peeta has to get me to the hallway where the phone is, and then runs to get a chair.  I can’t balance on one leg for too long.  Once Peeta’s determined that I’m settled enough, he hands me the phone.

“Hello?”

“Katniss.”

I smile a little.  It’s my mother.  We don’t call each other often, and the calls are sporadically placed, never an even time-frame.  But we do keep in some semblance of contact.  It’s nice to hear from her.

“Mom.  How are you?”

“Oh, just fine.  But how are you?  Peeta says you’ve done something to your ankle.  He said it’d take him a minute to get you to the phone.”

I sigh. “Yeah, I slipped on some ice and cracked it a little.”

“You slipped?”

I can hear the question in my mother’s voice.  She knows it’s odd for me to have slipped at all, let alone injure my ankle from it.  Then I remember and wince guiltily.  I have not told my mother that I’m pregnant.  My mother keeps talking in the pause that I take to think.

“Katniss, are you alright?  It’s not like you to slip.  How did you damage your ankle that badly on ice?”

“Well, my center of gravity is pretty much nonexistent becau-”

“What do you mean?  You’ve always had fantastic balance.  Are you sick?”

“Mom!  Stop talking for a second!”

“Sorry.”

“I was _trying_ to tell you, the reason I fell and the reason my balance is off is because I’m pregnant.”

There’s a long pause on the line.

“Are you serious?”

“Yes.  Why is this so surprising to everyone?”

“Well, you’ve never really seemed like the type.  But I suppose Peeta had a lot to do with this, too, didn’t he?”

I roll my eyes.  “Yes, of course he did.”

“Well, this is a surprise.  How far along are you?”

“A little more than six months.”

“More than six months?!  You got all the way to your third trimester without telling me?”

“I’m sorry, Mom, it slipped my mind.”

“Katniss, only you would forget to tell your family that you’re pregnant.”

“I’m sorry, okay?”

“I’m not mad, it’s just very you.”

“Yeah, well, I can’t even keep it together most days because this baby is kicking the hell out of me twenty-four-seven and I have anxiety attacks every time it does!  So really, I’m just in a perpetual anxiety attack.”

“Takes after you.  You wouldn’t stop kicking me either.  But, you have anxiety attacks?”

“Yeah.  Remember that rope I used to tie knots in?”

“Yes, you didn’t let go of it once in 13.”

“Well, it’s bad enough that I have to do that again.  I did want to ask, do you know of a way to get the kid to calm down?”

“Well, the baby might be fidgety because you are.  Or you may just have a bit of a hyperactive baby on your hands.”

“Great,” I mutter, deadpanned.  If my mother can’t get the child to calm down, no one can.

“You could try a few things.  Don’t eat as much sugar if you’ve been eating a lot of it-”

“Mom, remember who I live with.”

“I’ll take that as a yes for the sugar.  It’ll make the child even more hyper.  I would say try walking, but since you’ll be having trouble with that, try rocking a little.  It might put the baby to sleep for a bit.  I did that with you and it helped.  But if it doesn’t, just be glad you have a healthy, active baby.”

I sigh.  “I am, it’s just hard to cope with.”

“I know.  But you don’t have long to go.”

“Yeah, just three more months,” I mutter.

“That’s not that long.  It’ll be over before you know it.  And you’d better have a picture of that child in the mail the day it’s born.”

I smile a little through the wincing from Tadpole’s tap dancing.

“I’ll try my best.”

“You know, you could come visit here so I could see my grandchild in person.”

She won’t come back here to District 12.  I know my mother will never set foot back in District 12 if she can help it.  She’d relapse again.  She’s never fully recovered.  A part of me is still bitter about it.  But she sounds hopeful, so I suppress the bitterness.  There’s no need for it when she’s just excited.

“Maybe.  Though, give Peeta and me a month at least to adjust, Mom.  I’m not sure how I’m going to react yet to this whole...mother thing.”

My own mother laughs a rare laugh over the phone.

“You’ll slip right into it, don’t worry.”

I know that’s not true.  It may have been true for my mother, but it’ll take me some time. I don’t tell her this.

“Good,” I say to placate her.  My mother has to leave to get back to work soon after.    When Tadpole’s kicking gets too strong, I ask Peeta to help me upstairs to the nursery, remembering what my mother told me.  Thank god Peeta had the presence of mind to put a rocking chair in there.  I’m using it already and the child isn’t even born.  I tell him what my mother said, that rocking might help.  That and a decrease in sugar.  We both deflate a little at that.  Peeta so loves baking me things and my appetite hasn’t slowed.  I suppose Tadpole isn’t so big yet that I can’t fit anything in my stomach.

I keep thinking about what my mother said.  About how I should just be happy that I have a healthy baby.  It upsets me.  I am happy that I have a healthy baby.  Why wouldn’t I be?  Does she think I’d forsake Tadpole’s health because I’m scared?  Furthermore, does she not understand that I would give anything to beat the anxiety?  I would give anything to be able to enjoy this like normal mothers do.  I don’t want to be scared when my baby moves.  I want to take joy in it like everyone else does.  This reaction is so deep-set, I can’t shake it.  Just one more thing the Capitol ended up getting from me before it went under. 

I don’t want the baby to stop moving.  It would mean the baby was unhealthy.  I just want the child to stop being as frantic and fidgety as I am.  The kicking is strong and quick and violent.  I want it to just calm down a little.  Softer kicks, playful ones, not urgent ones.  I sigh bitterly.  I’ll just have to see if the rocking works.

I sit in that rocking chair, swaying back and forth for hours.  Sometimes Tadpole does fall asleep.  Not for long, but for little naps.  When the baby wakes up, though, it’s the same restless kicking.  And I suppose I can understand.  Tadpole can’t nap all the time, and I’m sure the child knows that its mother is stressed.  It’s not a solution.  Just an intermittent and temporary treatment.

The worst is the nightmares.  Nightmares aren’t new to me.  I have them nearly every night.  But these are especially vivid.  I’m always trapped somewhere.  In the Capitol in a cell, in District 13 in the hospital, in a tree in my first games held there by Careers.  Always hopelessly trapped.  The worst is when I wake up and feel Tadpole panicking as much as I am.  My child already has to deal with my psychological scars.  One night, where I swear I can feel the baby shaking inside me, I break down, sobbing into Peeta’s shoulder.  Peeta doesn’t ask what’s wrong.  He knows I don’t always like to talk about it.  He knows that being here is the most help he could give me.  I do tell him this time, though.  It’s been plaguing me for a while.

“Peeta, I’m scaring it.  It’s shaking, I swear it is.  It’s not even born and-”

“No, no, you’re not scaring it.  The baby’s maybe stressed because you’re scared, but you didn’t do anything.  It’s not your fault, Katniss, you didn’t do a thing.”

“How do I have any hope of being a decent parent if I’m already messing this up before the child’s even born?  The kid’s got a messed-up mom who can’t even get through a pregnancy without a mental breakdown.”

“Katniss, the fact that you’re worried about being a good parent tells me that  you already are one.”

I let this sink in.  It is a comforting thought, even if I’m skeptical.  I ask another question, a little calmer this time.

“Peeta, what are we going to tell this child when it asks about my nightmares?  Or your hallucinations?  Anything that has to do with the Games, or the war?  We’ll scare it to death then, too.”

“I don’t think so.  I think it’ll be fine.  We can cushion some things when the child is still young.  But it’ll handle it when the time comes.  I don’t think it’ll scare the child if we tell them at the right time.  I hope it’ll make them thankful.  Make them braver.  Think about it like that.”

I nod, hoping he’s right.

“And you need to cut yourself some slack.  This child will love you.  You’re its mother.  It’s not going to criticize you, Katniss.”

“Because it won’t know any better.”

“You still have no idea.  The effect you have.”

“Whatever.  I’m just glad the kid has you.  It’ll have at least one decent parent.”

Peeta patiently protests, but knows I’m not going to let this go any time tonight.  I can’t agree with him, although I’m glad he thinks so highly of me.  Eventually, Peeta gets me back to sleep.  

My days progress like this.  Fighting to keep it together, wishing that I could get through this like a normal person, knowing that it won’t happen that way, and hoping that the next few weeks go as quickly as possible.  I hate that I am so shaken up by this that I feel that I have to hurry everything along.  I spend my days frightened and bitter and guilty.

I can feel that things are progressing steadily, though.  I can feel how much heavier Tadpole is getting.  The next week, I realize that even Peeta’s shirts don’t fit over my belly anymore.  They stop a third of the way up.  Thankfully, though, I can’t walk into town, so I make Peeta go get larger clothes for me.  I don’t have to make the choice between my mother’s dresses and having to buy new clothes in town.  That does make me smile a bit, triumphant that I’ve escaped both humiliations.  I feel myself get out of breath trying to move from room to room.  I doubt that would’ve happened so early without my ankle, but with one leg out of commission and a heavy baby, moving anywhere is getting difficult.  

This is especially unfortunate since Peeta’s trips to town become more frequent and a little longer.  I can understand it.  He can’t ignore his business, especially now that I won’t be hunting until this baby is born.  But I can’t get from room to room without him, which is an infuriating loss of autonomy even when he is in the house.  When he’s not, I have to twiddle my thumbs and keep rocking in my chair until he reappears.  I would try to walk around with a crutch, but I don’t want to risk a mishap.  I’d rather be fidgety and annoyed than risk another fall.  

One day,  Peeta leaves early in the morning and isn’t back until mid afternoon. Peeta has been out for such a long time that I’m hopelessly irritated by the time he comes home. I know it’s not really him I’m mad at, but one can only sit in the same room for so long before annoyance follows.

“About damn time,” I grumble at him when he appears in the doorway.

“Sorry, I know I’ve been out a long time.”

“A really long time.  You could’ve come to check on me if you had to see multiple customers.  Just come to see if I was alright in between.”

“I’m sorry, I was dealing with the same one all day.”

“All day?  What’d they want?  That cake better be the size of our house if it took all day.”

“Come on, I know you want out of this room.”

“Understatement.  I’ve been staring at the wall all day.”

“It’s a pretty wall.”

I roll my eyes.  “Yes, it’s a pretty wall.  I love the wall.  But it’s still a wall, the same damn four walls I’ve been looking at all day.  Where are you going?”

Peeta has turned down the hallway with me in tow.

“Peeta, I’m hungry, I want to go to the kitchen.”

“Just give me a second, I promise we’ll eat something soon.”

“I’ve given you a lot of seconds today, can we please just go to the kitchen?”

“In a minute, I promise.”

“Peeta, I’m losing my mind just sitting in this house all the time.  I’d like to at least be able to go where I want while I’m inside.”

“Katniss!  Hush for a minute!  I’m trying to be nice to you!”

I stop short, mouth snapping closed.  Peeta is laughing exasperatedly.  

“I have a surprise for you, but you’re making it extremely difficult for me to give it to you.  Please, don’t talk for a minute, just follow me.  Humor me.  Please?”

“Okay.  I’m sorry,” I mutter guiltily, feeling terrible about nagging Peeta.  Peeta leads me to the front door.  I have no idea what’s out there that he wants to give me.  I’m fervently hoping it’s not some sort of animal I’m going to have to take care of when I open the door.  There is an animal, but what it is attached to is what makes me gasp.  There’s an old, grizzled-looking mule standing, switching its tail in the green space in the middle of the victor’s village.  It’s dragging a tiny wooden cart with two seats up front.  Peeta chuckles.

“I told you to humor me.”

Here I am sniping at Peeta about being trapped in the house and he’s trying the whole time to get me out of the house.  I can’t go to the woods because I can’t get under the fence, but I can at least get outside and maybe ride around town.  I’ll have to suffer a few stares since I am now hugely pregnant, but I won’t be trapped inside.

“Oh my god.  Thank you, Peeta.”  I bury my face in Peeta’s chest, arms as far around him as I can get them with my belly in the way.  He stands silently with me for a moment before stirring.

“Come on.  We should go now if we want to do anything before dark.”

He helps me hobble over to the cart, helps me up into it, climbs in beside me.

“Where in the world did you get this ancient thing?” I laugh, looking at the old mule.  The mule’s ears swivel back, as if it heard me.

“Someone Greasy Sae knows.  They didn’t want it anymore since it’s so old.  Said it couldn’t pull a plow anymore.  But little wooden carts are a lot lighter than plows and it won’t have to do anything once you’ve had the baby.  I figured we both got a good deal.”

“Does it have a name?”

“No.  Why, do you have one in mind?”

“Can we name it Haymitch?  I’m still mad at him and I know he’ll hate it.”

Peeta doubles over laughing.

“He’ll despise it.  It’s perfect.”

The little cart sways and jolts as the slow old mule drags it along.  I don’t care how long it takes to get to town, or even if we get there.  I’m just glad to see the sky, to see bits of snow on the side of the road that won’t melt until spring.  I’m glad to be able to breathe air that speaks of trees and birds and grass.  Suddenly, Peeta steers the cart down another path.  It doesn’t lead to town.  It leads to the fence.

“Peeta, if you’re going to the fence, I can’t get under it.”

Peeta sighs.

“Katniss, you’re terrible with surprises.  Just _be_ _patient_.”

“Sorry.”

It takes a long time to get to the fence.  When we do, I don’t notice it at first.  But then I see it.  The fence still has to be in place.  Not to keep us in anymore, but there are predators out in the woods.  The people of District 12 deigned to keep it propped up just to keep them out of populated areas.  But there is a gate now.  A small, simple one.  It just connects to the first few feet of cables in the hugely tall fence that is not charged anymore.  But it is tall enough for me to be able to walk through it upright.  It’s right where I always went under.  My little ditch that I dug is even still there.

“Peeta, you did that?”

“That’s what’s been taking me so long every day.  I found some people who could help me with it since I’m no good with things like this.  I had to find a way to get you past the fence, and then I had to find a way to get you _to_ the fence.”

“This is...”  

I can’t even think of a way to describe it.  I think this is the best present anyone has ever given me.  I can do nothing but swallow the lump in my throat and say what I think is the most sincere thank you I’ve ever uttered.  Peeta grins.

“Come on.  Let’s get you out there.”

Peeta has to come with me beyond the fence because, of course, I can’t walk there on my own.  But he tells me he’ll help me go wherever I want.  I end up sitting propped up at the base of a tree, on the side of a forested hill.  The snow hasn’t collected as much here because the tree cover is so dense.  Peeta sits with me.  And Tadpole quiets almost immediately.  I grin.

“Happy to be back?” I ask my stomach.

“It stopped moving?”

“Sort of.  Tadpole sometimes wiggles a little, but the crazy kicking doesn’t happen out here.  Ever.”

“I wish we could get Tadpole to stop the crazy kicking at home, too.  For nighttime, when you’re trying to go to sleep, or trying to eat your dinner.”

“You used the nickname.”

“I don’t like it, though.”

“You do like it, you just don’t want to admit it.”

“I don’t.”

“You do so.”

“It’s convenient.”

“Admit it.”

“Alright!  It’s a little bit cute.”

I smile and stop pestering Peeta, triumphant.

“Don’t worry about the nighttime kicking.  I wish it would stop too, but if you can get me to the woods, if I can have just a little rest, I think I can handle it.”

“I’ll get you to the woods.  Every day.”

Of course he will. 

And he does.  Peeta takes me out here every single day.  He sits with me, which is fine because I’d be sitting anyway.  I can’t climb anymore, can’t even walk, so I just sit with Peeta, happy to be outside again.  I sleep a lot out here, leaning against Peeta, glad to be able to get some rest while Tadpole is calm.  It is my solace from Tadpole’s evening kicking, from the nightmares.  Those things don’t get any better.  But now I have my haven back, so I’m not miserable all day as well as during the night.

The only unfortunate side effect of this is that I start sleeping so much when I’m in the woods that I don’t sleep much at night.  I sit wide awake in the dark, tying knots through the kicking.  I don’t usually wake Peeta about it even though he wants me to.  He has to sleep sometime.  I do wish I could get my days and nights back on the right track, although I try hard not to complain even internally about those things since I’m able to be outside.  It does make things difficult sometimes, though, especially when the hours when Peeta and I are both awake are becoming fewer and fewer.  I just have to try and get rest when I can, and that is in the woods.

I go through two weeks of this flip-flopped schedule.  Poor Peeta doesn’t get to talk to me much since I’m usually unconscious while he’s awake.  We miss each other’s company.  I am trying to think of a way to change my sleep schedule when it comes.  A letter.  I only have a month and a half to go, but Annie has replied to my letter.  It is short, and a little truncated, but that’s Annie.  I read through it quickly.  Annie says she had about as much trouble as me when she was pregnant.  Not in the same exact way, but with the same effect.  She says there were days she’d wake up and didn’t remember that she was pregnant and got scared.  There were days she panicked about raising a child alone.  She says that the pregnancy is the worst part.  Once the child is here, I’ll be alright.  She says that Killian is absolutely fine, and encloses a picture of both of them.  He’s nearly taller than his mother at only fourteen.  He stands, lanky, long arm slung protectively around his mother’s shoulders, grinning at the camera.  His brown hair waves like hers, his grin and his eyes sparkle just like Finnick’s. I put the picture aside to put in the book later.  I almost think that Annie ended the letter abruptly right there when I notice another page.  There are only a few words on it.

_As for your baby, that’s easy.  Just sing.  If the birds stop to listen to you, so will she._

I put aside the fact that Annie has arbitrarily decided that Tadpole is a girl.  I hadn’t thought to sing to the child.  That day, I fight to stay awake in the woods.  I want to try Annie’s suggestion tonight.  If it works, I’ll be able to sleep at night like a normal person.  I let Tadpole kick a bit during dinner, but after I ask Peeta to put me upstairs in the nursery.  He does so before going back downstairs to work on an order.  All the better.  I don’t want to see him disappointed if this doesn’t work.  I haven’t sung to anyone since the war ended.  I try a few simple songs that don’t work.  They’re soft and lighthearted, if not a bit empty.  Tadpole keeps moving.

“What’s wrong with those?”

Tadpole dances in response.  I rack my brain.  A heavy weight settles on my heart when the last song I can think of crosses my mind.  I haven’t sung it since my first games.  But if anyone else is deserving enough to hear it, it’s my baby.

“This is the last one I’m going to try, and I’m only going to sing it once.  It’s very special.  So listen close, because if it doesn’t work, you won’t hear it again,” I murmur to the baby.  I take a shuddering breath before I begin.

__

_Deep in the meadow, under the willow_

_A bed of grass, a soft green pillow_

_Lay down your head, and close your sleepy eyes_

_And when again they open, the sun will rise_

__

_Here it’s safe, here it’s warm_

_Here the daisies guard you from every harm_

_Here your dreams are sweet and tomorrow brings_

_them true_

_Here is the place where I love you_

__

I can feel the tears well up behind my closed eyes as that baby slowly stops kicking me.  It still moves a little, but they’re gentle, sweeping movements.  Almost as if the child were dancing.  I keep singing.  On and on and on.  After a few minutes, Peeta is hovering in the doorway, tentatively listening.  He loves to hear me sing and I do it so little.  I wave him in.  I don’t stop singing.  He sits at the foot of my rocking chair, puts his hand on my belly.  He smiles when he only feels flutters.  I sit here, rocking, with one hand running through Peeta’s hair with his head rested on my knee, the other on my belly.  I sing until we all fall asleep.


	7. Chapter 7

I finally get a few weeks’ peace.  Ever since I started singing, Tadpole doesn’t kick hardly at all.  Tadpole still moves, but they’re lighter, sweeping movements that I can handle.  My voice only rests when I’m in the woods and when I’m asleep.  Peeta is the happiest I’ve seen him since the few weeks before Tadpole started moving.  I know part of it is because I’m finally happy, but I know the other part is that he loves my singing.  It calms him just as much as it does Tadpole.  I notice that the amount he gets confused or has hallucinations decreases drastically over these weeks.  He mostly just sits close to me and listens.  I resolve to sing like this to him the next time he has trouble.  I do not like to sing in public, or to just anyone.  I’ll only sing in the woods and to people I’m certain I love.  But I will sing to them as long as they need me to.  

I repeat that song so many times that the mockingjays that nest close to our house have nearly memorized it.  Sometimes, at night when I stop singing, they spontaneously break out in my song, without provocation.  I hear them repeat the song in little groups, singing in rounds.  There is music in our house nearly all the time.

These weeks also see an improvement in my ankle.  I am able to put a bit of weight on it again.  Not that it matters much.  I am enormous now, and even if my ankle were unharmed, I would be forced to waddle everywhere I go.  Tadpole is so heavy, I have to wear a sort of belt around my belly just so my back doesn’t give out from the strain.  I have always had a slight build, and I don’t handle the extra weight very well.  I have hit the stage where I can’t fit a cupcake in my stomach.  Everything settles, just as Sage said, right at the base of my esophagus.  I’m not all that concerned, though, just because I know I have so little time left.  I feel like I’ve been fighting my way through my whole pregnancy, so this is a relief.

Peeta still helps me out to the woods every day, even though I can barely fit on the bench in the front of the cart anymore.  I knew Tadpole would get big, but I could never have anticipated not being able to fit in certain spaces.  Benches like this one, chairs, narrow hallways.  I’m even loud in the woods now.  It’s so strange to hear my own heavy, dragging footsteps when I’m used them being silent.  I can’t even sit down or stand up without Peeta’s help.  I have finally become the human roly poly I dreaded months ago.  It is nearly as infuriating as I thought it would be, but this is tempered by the knowledge that it won’t last long.  I have a matter of weeks, if that.

Every few days, Peeta drags me by Sage’s office on our way home.  She demands to see me as often as possible.  One day, she tells me that I technically have three more weeks to go, but that really, I could have this baby at any time now.  She tells me what to watch out for and that when the time comes, I should get Peeta to bring me straight here.  

The coming week feels as if I’m holding my breath.  I am just waiting, feeling that I’m in the calm before a storm.  Just as I knew that I was pregnant without anyone having to tell me, I know that I do not have three weeks.  I can tell in the way that I inexplicably feel the compulsion to re-fold all of Tadpole’s clothes one morning.  I can tell in the way that one day, I wake up to find space between my stomach and my breastbone and Tadpole sitting low inside me.  I know that Peeta and I will be parents by the end of the week.  Peeta can feel it, too.  We both spend the week in jittery, anticipatory nervousness.  Things do not feel real to me and feel too real at the same time.  

In the evening in the middle of the week, I start to feel very light, sporadic contractions.  Sage said that would happen.  I don’t have to go to her office yet.  It’s when they get stronger and when my water breaks that I have to go.  She said this part can last for a while and it’s not urgent, so there’s no need to do anything but go about my day as normal.  I also don’t tell Peeta about it, because I know he’ll start panicking early and I don’t want to worry him before it’s necessary.  He won’t understand that so little is happening right now that it’s barely worth paying attention to.  But I know now I’m down to a matter of days.  Maybe hours.

I last through the night without incident.  I go through my morning as normal, but it’s as if I’m waiting for a bomb to drop.  I still let Peeta cart me out into the woods.  It’ll help my anxiety a little and I could last another day like this without anything happening.  I get Peeta to take me to my lake today.  I stand for a minute, in the same place I watched the little tadpoles swimming around, just taking it in.  It’s not spring yet, but signs of it are starting to crop up.  Little buds are starting to form on the trees.  Same for the flowering plants around the lake.  Some of the buds have little, colorful petals peeking out.  I see a little splash of yellow and blue in particular on a lone petal from a rogue iris plant.  Eventually I ask Peeta to help me sit down.  He grasps both of my hands, lowering me down.  I have just made contact with the ground when I feel a little pop and there’s a gush of clear fluid coursing down the insides of my legs.  

“Up, up, back up,” I demand, my hands still in his.  He frowns confusedly, but pulls me gently back up.

“What is it?”  He must not have noticed because of the tall grass. 

“Peeta, did you not see the waterfall?”

“What?”

I gesture down to my soaked legs.  His eyes widen. He chokes out a few words.

“Does that-”

“Yes.  You like it that much out here, huh?” I ask my stomach.

Peeta hasn’t moved.  He nods once, but doesn’t seem to have understood.

“Come on, we should start walking.  I don’t move that fast and we’re supposed to get to Sage’s now.”

He nods the same nod.  I have to take Peeta’s hand and drag him along for a few paces before he clues in.  He remembers to help me because I still have small trouble with my ankle.  He does seem to want me to go a little faster than usual, though.  At one point, I can’t keep up with him.

“Peeta, slow down, I can’t go that fast.”

“Sorry,” he slows down, looking at me sheepishly.  I can tell he’s started to panic and wants to get me to Sage’s as quickly as possible.

“Calm down, we have time to be able to walk like normal people.  This is going to take a lot longer than you think, Peeta,” I can’t help but laugh a little.  Peeta doesn’t seem much calmer, but he does slow down considerably.

“How long?”

“I don’t know.  But we’ll be there a while.  Maybe all night.”

“Oh.  Sorry.  I just-”

“It’s alright.  There’s just no need for panic.  You’ll know when it’s time to panic.”

“...how?”

“I’ll probably be yelling at you.”

“Oh, thanks,” Peeta replies sarcastically.

I smile a little.  I am strangely calm right now.  I know that this won’t last and that I’ll be panicking later with the knowledge that I’ll have a defenseless human being in my care in a matter of hours.  But for now I am unconcerned.  If anything, I want to enjoy the certainty of the moment.  I am no longer waiting, no longer wondering how I’m going to be able to power through my days.  There’s a finality to everything right now that I’m enjoying.  We get back to the cart and Peeta gingerly helps me in.  I realize that we haven’t got anything to take to Sage’s.

“We should go home first.”

“But Sage said-”

“Peeta, you know that lovely little bag you’ve had packed for three months?”

“Yes.”

“We don’t have that with us.  We should go home and get it first.  It won’t take that long.”

“Why do we need it?”

“I’d rather not go through labor in this,” I gesture to my outdoor clothes.  I can still fit my father’s jacket over my shoulders if I don’t zip it.  “It’s not exactly comfortable.  I’d also love for the baby to have clothes to go home in.”

Peeta sits for a moment without saying anything.  I can tell he’s nervous about this, but he knows I won’t leave him alone until he listens to me.  He sighs.

“Okay.  But don’t yell at me if it takes too long.”

I just chuckle.  We are silent for a moment before Peeta speaks.

“Are you nervous?”

“A little.  But I’m also really happy that this is almost over.  It hasn’t been easy.  But I will say I think you look more nervous than me.”

He doesn’t say anything.  He just smiles that sheepish smile again.  I am worried about him, though.  He hasn’t said much in the last twenty minutes or so.  I think it’s because he’s worrying about bringing a baby home just like I am, but I decide to ask him.

“Are you nervous about bringing the baby home?”

Peeta smiles.

“Some, but not that much.  You are?”

“Yes!  Babies scare me.  They’re fragile.  I’m always afraid I’m going to hurt them.  That’s not what you’re scared of?”

“Not really.  And you won’t hurt it, Katniss.  I swear you’re convinced you’ll be the world’s worst mother and you need to stop.  No, I’m worried about the next twelve hours or so.  I’m worried about you having to actually _have_ this baby.”

This brings me up short because it’s so low on my own list of worries.

“Why?  You’re not the one who actually has to go through it,” I grumble.

“I know that,” Peeta rolls his eyes.  “I just hate seeing you in pain.  It really bothers me.  And things can go wrong.  I’m just worried.”

Peeta is perpetually worried about me and today is no exception.  He hates to see me in any sort of distress, and if he does, he is immediately trying to fix it.  He’s also obviously still worried that he might lose me, although I know the chance of that is slim with Sage to help us.  I wince.  This will probably be terrifying for Peeta.  I’m calm now, but I’ve seen mothers in labor.  My own mother used to take care of them. I usually cleared out if I could, but sometimes I couldn’t and was forced to watch them and hear them.  I see flashes of them, white-knuckled, gripping door frames, chair backs, headboards, fistfuls of bed-sheets.  I remember them pacing like caged animals, or rocking back and forth, or sitting huddled on the floor, or on all fours, heads hanging like beaten dogs.  The noise was always the worst.  You couldn’t escape it.  Panting and moaning and growling and screeching.  Ancient and bestial.  Childbirth looks and sounds impossibly violent and frightening.  I need to assuage Peeta now, because I know there’ll come a time later where I won’t even be able to speak.

“Don’t worry about anything going wrong.  Sage will be there.  She’ll let you know if there’s reason to worry about that.  Just put it out of your mind now.  But, Peeta, I can’t avoid the pain.  It’s going to look and sound awful and I won’t be able to help it.  But that doesn’t mean anything is wrong.  It may seem like I’m mad at you, or like something’s wrong, but that’s not true.  I just need you to understand that now because I won’t be in my right mind later.  Just trust me that it’s going to be okay.”

Peeta nods determinedly.  “Okay.  Do you even feel anything yet?”

“Yes but it’s not strong enough to count as pain.”  I am not concerned about the pain aspect of this.  I am used to physical pain.  I’ve almost died before.  I’ve been in the hospital too many times to count.  I deal with pain as it comes and usually forget it quickly.  It’s only emotional pain I ever worry about.

Peeta gets us back home fairly quickly.  He doesn’t even bother to help me out of the cart, since he intends to run in the house, grab the bag, and run right back out.  Thankfully, he’s in the house when the first sign of real pain hits.  It feels like the muscle cramps I used to get in my calves, only ten times stronger and from hipbone to hipbone.  I think I feel it extend back to my back a little.  It is surprisingly powerful.  I cannot do anything but clutch the edge of my seat and grit my teeth until it passes.  I exhale, realizing I was holding my breath.  

“This’ll be fun,” I mutter to myself.  Peeta is back out the door in record time, which is good.  Although we’re not taking too long by any means, the onset of real pain tells me it’s definitely time to stop dawdling and get to Sage’s.  Peeta seems to notice a reminiscent look of discomfort on my face and immediately asks about it.

“Are you okay?  What happened?”

“I’m fine, I’m just feeling it now.  It was only one, so don’t worry.”

The strange, strong pain only hits once more on our way to Sage’s.  I curl over a little, eyes clenched shut, gritting my teeth again.  I was in the middle of a sentence and had to stop abruptly.  When it passes, I open my eyes again.  Peeta just eyes me warily.

“Sorry, they’re hard to talk through.”  I continue where I left off.  Right now, everything is quite bearable since I get long breaks in between the pain.  I take advantage of it since I know it won’t last.  

We get to Sage’s fairly quickly.  She is a bit surprised to see us, but takes it in stride.

“Few weeks earlier than I thought, but that’s just fine.  Come on.”

She shows us to the same bed I was in last time and lets me change into the nightgown Peeta brought.  She examines me first, then straps me to a number of strange machines that spit out charts I can’t read.

“Well, you’ve got a ways to go, but everything is normal.  I suggest you get as much rest as you can now.  Sleep if you can.  You won’t be able to later so try.”

Sage doesn’t disappear upstairs this time, but just moves into a room adjacent to this one on the same floor.  I suppose she wants to keep a closer eye on me today.

“You should try to sleep too,” I tell Peeta.  “I’ll probably wake you up later even if I don’t mean to.”

I drag him up on the bed with me.  I fall asleep surprisingly quickly with him pressed against my back, one hand on my belly as always.  Sometimes I float out of unconsciousness, half-awake when the pain hits, but mostly I stay asleep.  Sage doesn’t wake me up at all.  I’m sure she reads the strange little charts the machines produce, but she obviously finds them satisfactory and lets me rest.  I’m grateful.  I’m not sure how long I’ve been asleep when I slowly start waking up.  I keep being pulled from sleep, pain on the edge of my consciousness, before I slip back under.  This happens for a while, slowly waking me up.  But soon I’m brought harshly back to the waking world.  This pain is stronger.  A lot stronger.  It lasts much longer this time, too.  I know my time for rest is over.

The strange waves of pain come closer together now.  I still have breaks in between, but they’re shorter.  When it hits, there is nothing in my consciousness but pain.  I can’t speak, can’t think, can’t even keep my eyes open.  It is brutally strong.  It’s powerful enough that the sensation seems to carry over into my legs, running down the nerves there.  I lie there for a while, legs squirming, hand fisted around the corner of my pillow before I decide I can’t stay lying down anymore.  Thankfully Sage appears immediately, as if summoned.

“I want to stand up,” I demand, eyes clenching shut again.  Sage examines me first, but then obliges.  Peeta is still asleep and I decide to leave him there for a while and let Sage deal with me.  Peeta will hate this, so the less he has to see of it, the better.  Sage pulls me to my feet easily.  She’s surprisingly strong for someone who is fairly small.

“You’re strong,” I blurt out.

“You’re not very big, even pregnant.  Besides, if I’m strong enough to set bones, I’m strong enough to get you on your feet.  Do you want to walk or just stand?”

“Walk.”

“Okay.  That’s good, walking gets things moving faster.”

“Good, because I’m already tired of this.  How much longer is this going to last?”

“Not to be discouraging, but you’re definitely not out of the woods yet.  You’re almost halfway.”

“Joy.”

“Come on, let’s walk.”

The walking at least helps until the pains hit.  Then I have to stop, and hold on to Sage so my knees don’t buckle.   Sage holds me up, steady despite her size.  She keeps walking with me, up and down the room with the beds.  No one else is in here besides her, me, and Peeta.  She is businesslike as always, but is remarkably patient.

“Thank you,” I blurt again.  I seem to have lost my ability to censor myself.  “I know I don’t listen to you most of the time, and you still put up with me.”

Sage laughs at my candor.

“Well, you are one of the most difficult patients I’ve ever had.  But, if anyone has earned the right to be a pain, it’s you.  I’ll put up with you as long as you need, and that’s my thank you to you.”

Sage tries to counteract the sincerity of her words with a bit more terseness than usual.  But they get through to me all the same.  I nod once at her.  We understand each other.  She keeps walking me up and down the room until we hear Peeta stir.

“Katniss?”

“I’m over here, Peeta.”

Peeta is upright and across the room in seconds.

“Why didn’t you wake me?”

“I haven’t been up that long, Peeta,” I lie.  He won’t understand that I was trying to spare him a few hours of this.  “Just a few minutes.”

“Here, maybe you should take over for a while,” Sage suggests.  “Just help her walk and hold her up when a contraction hits.  Simple.”

Peeta nods, happy to be of some help.  I am glad that Peeta is here, because the pain starts getting worse.  Now, when it hits, I loop my arms around Peeta and press my forehead to his chest.  He stands quietly through it, rubbing my lower back.  He asks, “Does this help?”  I just nod into him, unable to do much else.  A half an hour later, I’m clutching Peeta, standing in the middle of the room, and I can’t keep quiet anymore.  I’ve been relatively silent before this.  The sound is somewhere between moaning, whining, and singing.  It stays on the same pitch and reverberates in the room.  A few minutes later, I realize I can’t keep walking.  I can’t stay upright without leaning on Peeta.  

“I don’t want to walk anymore.  Go back,” I murmur, shaking my head.  Peeta does everything I ask, saying almost nothing.  I don’t lie down once we’re back to our little corner.  I lean, hunched over, fists clutching a bar on the side of the bed, arms braced against it, still half-standing.  I’m vaguely aware that my legs are twitching and trembling uncontrollably.  I am slowly losing touch with what is going on, losing awareness.  My existence becomes just fighting through pain.  I am only still conscious of Peeta’s presence.  He just keeps rubbing my back, silent.  He seems to know that trying to talk to me is a bad idea.  I’m sure I’ll snap without meaning to if I try to talk back.  I just stand, fists clenched, trembling and moaning that same whining, singing moan.  At one point though, I do snap at Peeta as he starts doing something to my hair.

“What in hell are you doing?  Are you seriously playing with my hair right now?”

“No, I’m just re-braiding it.  It’s falling all over the place.  I think you’ll feel better if it’s out of your face, but if you want me to stop, I will.”

Peeta just calmly replies to my biting tone.  I feel bad, but I am past the point of being able to do a thing about it.

“Sorry.  Yeah, re-braid it.”  Even my apology sounds forced, but all speech is a struggle for me, so I move on.  Peeta carefully braids my hair as my head hangs and I sway, rocking back and forth, still clutching the bed.  He is right; I feel better with it out of my face.  He keeps rubbing my back after that.  Things continue this way for a long time.  Hours, I think.  It is all I can do to just clutch the rail on the bed and try to stay sane.  My keening moans get louder, harsher, and longer.  Sage comes by more than once to check on me.  She keeps telling me how many centimeters I am and I am past the point of knowing or caring what that means.  After she does this the third time, I snap at her, too.

“Sage, I don’t give a damn.  If I’m not ready to get this thing out of me _right now_ , then I don’t care.  Just tell me how long I have to do this and be done with it.”

“I was going to ask how she was coping, but I guess I have my answer,” she says to Peeta.

“Is she supposed to be doing better or worse?”

“She’s about on par, though I think she has back labor, which is a bit worse than normal.  Just keep doing what you’re doing and don’t talk if you don’t have to.  She’s relatively calm now.  Just stay vigilant, because I think she’s one of those who is going to lose it when she hits transition.”

“What does that mean?” Peeta asks warily.

“Oh, you’ll find out.”

I would yell at them about talking about me like I’m not here, but I can’t spare the energy.  Time moves too slowly.  I spare a moment to look up at the windows in the room.  There is no light peeking through the curtains now.  I have been here all day.  I have no idea how much longer I have to go.  It is exhausting and constant and impossibly draining.  When I get tired of standing, I move to the bed, which is tilted up a bit so I’d be sitting upright if I were laying on it normally.  I’m planted on my knees, hands clutching the top of the bed, head buried there too.  All of my limbs are shaking now.  I don’t want to stay upright, I want to lie down, but lying down is too impossibly painful.  I cannot find a comfortable position anymore.  The only thing slightly comforting is Peeta’s hand rubbing warm circles on my back as it has been all day and part way into the night.  Time starts to take its toll on me.  The pain has not gotten worse in the last hour, but I have been fighting it all day.  I am starting to come unhinged.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” I moan.  It’s been taking so long.

“You can.”

I shake my head at him.  “No.”

“I know it doesn’t seem like it.  It’s been taking a long time and you’re tired.  I know you are.  You’re handling it better than I would if I were in your position.  You can do it, and you will.”  Peeta’s voice is calm and measured and blessedly understanding.  I just nod at him, head still buried in the mattress.  

As if the universe knows that I am reaching my breaking point and wants to play a cruel joke on me, something happens.  My throat feels like it’s closing up.  I am nauseous.  My whole being is trembling, almost vibrating.  And there are no breaks anymore.  Absolutely none.  The waves of pain overlap each other.  And that is when I really lose my mind.

“Oh.  Oh my god.”  I start yelling.  “Oh god, oh god, oh god!”

“Katniss?”

“Oh my god, what the hell is happening?!” I shriek, incorporating the words into the moaning that doesn’t stop now.  I’m inexplicably infuriated.

“What’s wrong?” Peeta asks, panicked at my outburst.

“I feel like I’m _dying_ , that’s what!”

I hear quick footsteps.

“Is she alright?” Peeta asks.  Sage must be here.

“She’s fine.  Well, relatively.”

“Then why do I feel like this?!  This does not feel fine, dammit!”

“ _That’s_ transition,” Sage tells Peeta.  “The good news is, we don’t have much longer.  The bad news is, she’ll be like this for the remainder of labor.”

“Quit talking about me like I’m not here and just tell me how long I’m going to feel like I want to die!”

“Shouldn’t be much longer than thirty minutes.”

“That’s ‘not long’ to you?!”

“Well, considering you’ve been here since ten in the morning and it’s almost midnight, yes.”

Any retort I have dissolves into incoherent wailing.

“Just breathe through it,” Sage commands.  I am in too much pain to handle any sort of direction well.

“I swear to god, Sage-”

“Swear all you want, but it’ll help.  Just breathe.”

“I mean it.  Tell me to breathe one more time and this,” I gesture to a small but heavy clock on the side table, “and anything else I can find will be coming towards you.”

“Sage, she means it.  She’ll throw it.  She will throw it at you.  She’s got good aim-”

“ _Breathe._ ”

“You breathe!” I yell, lobbing the clock behind me.

“I told you,” Peeta mutters.  I know the clock didn’t hit Sage when I hear it slam into the wall.  But I know it was probably close.

Sage speaks, obviously trying to contain how badly I’ve startled her.  “Alright, so coaching isn’t going to work with her.”

“I could’ve told you that,” Peeta mutters, chuckling a bit.  “Not like that anyway.”

“Don’t you dare laugh at me, Peeta!”

“I’m not laughing at you, I’m laughing at Sage.  What would make you feel better?”

“Killing something.”

“Well, you almost killed Sage.”

“No I didn’t.  Oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god,” my words dissolve into more amorphous yelling.  “I want to shoot something!”

“I know, I know.  And I’d let you if you weren’t, you know, in a hospital.”

“I want to throw things!  Oh god-”

“Please don’t.  You already broke the clock.  Don’t get mad at me, but maybe you should try breathing.”

“ _No_.”

“Okay, okay.  I’m sorry.  Is this normal?!” Peeta asks Sage.

“For the most part.  Although, she is the most violent I’ve ever seen.  She’s lethal.”

“Oh god, I don’t want children anymore!” I bellow, punching the mattress underneath me.

“Does that help?  Punching?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know!  Dammit, dammit, dammit,” I beat the mattress with each phrase.

“That’s right, Katniss, punch the mattress,” Peeta says patiently.  If I weren’t in blinding pain, I might laugh.  I do end up beating the mattress.  It doesn’t actually help the pain, but it gives me an outlet at the least.  This continues for at least fifteen minutes.  My continuous hollering and punching, Peeta’s attempt at encouraging and calming me.

“I want this thing out of me!” I scream when the pain gets particularly bad.

“I’ll check how far along she is,” Sage says, startled as much as Peeta is at my vehemence.  I clench my fists as she examines me once more, hoping that I don’t have to suffer much more of this.  Peeta just puts his hand over my clenched one.

“You’re almost done,” he assures me.  I can’t say much back, but I do unclench my fist and grasp his hand, vice-like.  He squeezes back.  I dissolve into that wailing again, but I don’t let go of his hand.

“You’re in luck.  We’re ready to have a baby,”  Sage concludes.  The next few moments are a flurry of jumbled activity.  Sage running for things, Peeta looking around wildly, me being moved this way and that.  Next thing I know, I’m turned around, sitting upright, curled over, legs slung into something akin to stirrups, straining and pushing and sweating and shouting so hard I’m afraid my lungs will burst.  I still haven’t let go of Peeta’s hand.  He’s got one arm behind my shoulders, holding me as far upright as he can.  The other is bent at the elbow, straining against the strength of my hand bearing down on his.  Sage is shouting directions at me.  I can’t follow them.  I can hardly hear her over my pulse pounding in my ears, the pain, the strain, and the exhaustion.  After a moment, Peeta starts calmly, measuredly repeating what she says.  He’s not yelling, he’s not demanding.  Just talking.  I obediently follow, able to think clearer when he talks to me.  Sometimes he counts with Sage.  Sometimes he says calming things to me.  Sometimes, gently directs me.  Others, encourages me.  His voice is the only thing I’m really aware of for a time.  Suddenly, Sage does break through my consciousness.

“Baby’s head is out.  You’re nearly there, just one more.”

Peeta jumps when she speaks.  “Is it a boy or a girl?”

“You can’t tell from a head.  A little patience, Peeta?”  Sage admonishes.  I almost laugh, but I can’t yet.  I feel as if I don’t have an ounce of strength left, but I try to dredge up what I can and with a final shout I feel the baby slip free.  I feel warm weight on my stomach and hear a tiny, thin little wail.  Sage is rubbing the baby with towels as it rests on me, so I can’t really see it at first.  

“Did you hear that, Katniss?”  Peeta asks thickly.  I have fallen back, leaning exhaustedly, propped up by the tilted bed.

“Uh uh.  What did she say?”

“It’s a girl.”

I look back down and Sage finally moves away from the child.  There she is.  Grayish and red-faced, still screaming her head off, thrashing about as much as her tiny limbs can.  She slows down to little kitten mewls once she realizes that Sage has stopped the business with the towels.  She’s looking around quickly, sharply, and curiously, frowning still.  I can feel my tired, drooping smile envelop my face.  Sage gets Peeta to shakily cut the cord before whisking her off to weigh her and make sure she’s alright.  She’s returned quickly to us, this time wrapped tightly in a little blanket.  She’s still looking around, as if trying to take in everything at once.

“What in the world are you looking at?” I chuckle quietly at her.  She starts and her little gaze darts to me and Peeta, as if she just noticed us.  She squawks halfheartedly at us before quieting down and settling against me.  She’s still looking up at us, but it’s no longer questioning.

“Yeah, you know who we are, don’t you?” I ask her.

“She’s got your hair,” Peeta smiles.  He’s sobbing, tears pouring down his face, leaning on the side of the bed.  She does indeed.  She’s already got a head full of stick-straight, dark hair, just like mine.  

“Your nose, though.”

“She does, doesn’t she?  But look at her eyes.”

She has the bluest eyes I think I’ve ever seen.  Dark, deep blue.  I see so many people in them.  A bit of my mother.  Some of Peeta’s father, from what I can remember.  So, so much of Peeta, in how bright and sweet they are.  A quiet gentleness that is unmistakably Prim.  And there’s a little spark in there that is just her that I’ve never seen in anyone else.  

It’s not until Peeta hands me a tissue that I realize I’m crying as hard as he is.  He’s just staring down at her like she’s the most precious thing in the universe.

“Here, take her,” I smile.  Peeta has been waiting for this all of his life.  I’m not going to delay it any longer.  He gingerly gathers the little girl in the crook of his elbow and doesn’t look away.  I suspect he never will.  She looks up at him and immediately closes her little blue eyes, burrowing into him, content.  He sits down with her right next to the bed, as close to me as he can get.

“So, what’s her name?” Sage asks, business-like as ever once more, pen poised to record it.

Peeta and I peer into her little face.

“Should we name her after anyone?” he asks.

“No.  She’s her own person,” I reply, decidedly.  He nods in agreement.  I keep wondering what her little eyes remind me of.  I think of how the only place she was ever calm was out in the woods, particularly by the lake where I gave her her nickname.  I remember a vivid blue from just this morning, by that same lake.

“Iris.”  Her eyes look just like that little petal poking out from that iris plant from this morning.  Peeta looks at her hard.  And nods.

“It fits.”

I lean over onto his shoulder, taking in the both of them, like two little matching puzzle pieces.

“Yes.  It does.”

The last thing I see before exhaustion overtakes me is Peeta, smiling and talking to her endlessly, Iris listening with rapt attention.  I fall asleep and dream of her bright blue eyes.


	8. Chapter 8

“You three are free to go home.  Come back in a week just to make sure the little one is alright.”

That is when I start feeling uneasy.  I was unconcerned yesterday.  Sage kept us here for twenty-four hours to make sure Iris and I were alright.  Now we’re being sent home.  With a tiny baby.  I’m not being told what to do with her anymore.  I’m on my own.

Peeta carts us back up towards the Victor’s Village and I’ve got Iris tucked in the crook of my arm.  I’m glad I don’t have to walk back since I don’t feel completely normal after a long and arduous labor.  I look down at her.  She’s squinting, looking all around.  She does that almost all the time.  Always trying to take everything in.  But I realize the squinting is because the sun is in her eyes a little.

“Sorry,” I mutter to her, hovering my hand above her her little eyes, shading her somewhat from the light.  Her face relaxes and she keeps looking around.  “Have you noticed how...I don’t know how to put it.”

“How alert she is?” Peeta supplies.

“I don’t know, I was thinking more along the lines of distracted.”

He smiles.  “That, too.  She’s a curious little thing, isn’t she?”

“Seems like it.  Are we not interesting?”  I ask her.  She ignores me and keeps watching everything else.  She seems particularly interested in our old mule.  Peeta chuckles at her.

“Apparently not.”

“I just went through fourteen plus hours of labor for you, but go ahead and ignore me,” I tell her.  She does.  I just watch her little eyes dart around, still wondering what to make of her.  Peeta can’t get enough of her.  He barely watches the road in front of him.  We finally get home and I’m glad to be somewhere familiar after a rocky few days.  I’m also enjoying being able to move a little bit more freely, even though I can feel the physical toll Iris put on me.  I suspect it’ll take some time to recover.  But I can get out of the cart without help, so that’s an improvement.  We cross the threshold, Iris looking around as wildly as ever at the new scenery.  

“This is your house,” Peeta tells her, grinning at her.  She looks at him, listening.  She seems to know when Peeta is talking to her, although sometimes she still finds other things more interesting.   Peeta loves talking to her.  He narrates almost everything to her and she’s barely a day old.

“You going to give her the whole tour?” I ask, even though I think I know the answer.

“Of course.”

I smile a little.  I’m made to follow Peeta through the house with the child as he tells her what each room is.  She just blinks at him and seems to pay attention.  At least, as much as a newborn can.  She seems particularly interested in the pots hanging from hooks in the kitchen.  She wriggles a little in Peeta’s studio.  She must like the colors.  The best is when her little eyes light up looking at the wall in her nursery.  I’m not sure if she’s made the connection between the picture and the only place she was calm when she was inside me.  Whether or no, she seems to like her room.  We stand silently with her in the nursery, having been through every room in the house.  Her little gaze moves to me, as if she’s waiting for me to tell her what’s happening next.  Except I don’t know.

“What do we do with it now?” I blurt.

“We take care of her,” Peeta answers simply.

“I know that,” I huff.  I’m just at a loss.  She’s not wriggling, she’s not crying, she’s not even looking around anymore.  She’s just staring intently at me and doing nothing else.  I don’t know what to do but just stare blankly back.  “She’s just...not doing anything.  I don’t really know what to do with her unless she cries or something.”

“You don’t have to do anything with her really.  She’s a baby.  She’ll watch us and either go to sleep or cry when she wants something.  It’s alright, Katniss, you’re both fine.”

Peeta is so much better than me at this already.

“Well, I’m going to go make us some lunch.  You want to watch, Iris?”  He directs at her.  I follow him downstairs and sit in the kitchen with her still in my arms.  She does watch Peeta, following his movements with her shaky, clumsy, day-old gaze.  He offers to take her for a bit once lunch is done so I don’t have to eat one-handed.  He seems adept at doing so, easily holding her up with one arm, going about his business as if he’s done things this way forever.  Iris is remarkably quiet for the remainder of the day, to the point that I wonder what use I am at all, since Peeta seems to be the only one who knows what to do with her.  The first sign of any reaction I have to her at all crops up in the evening, when we’re getting ready for bed.  Peeta starts walking with her towards the nursery and I stop him.

“I don’t want to put her in there.”

“What?”

“I want her in our room.  I don’t want her all the way across the hall.  She’s so little.”

I don’t know why this is so important to me, but it is.  I can’t stand the thought of her being out of my sight, even if I don’t know what to do with her when she’s here.  It terrifies me.  I don’t like the idea of my not being able to get to her if something happens.

“I wondered if you’d say that.”

“You did?”

“Yes.  I don’t care what anyone else says, you’re the most maternal person I’ve ever met.  I thought you might not want her across the hall at first.”

I snort at him.

“I’m not maternal.”

“Sure you’re not.  Come on, I stashed something in the closet that I thought might come in handy.”

Peeta does turn into the nursery, but only to go open the closet.  He passes the baby off to me as he drags something out.  It’s a cradle.  A tiny cradle that will fit perfectly beside our bed.  He smiles and shrugs.

“I didn’t really want her across the hall either.”

He easily carries the cradle into our room, placing it within reach of our bed.  Thankfully, Iris has dozed off and she continues sleeping even after we lower her into her little cradle.

“I’m glad you thought of this,” I admit.

“Me too.”

We fall asleep easily, both of us facing the little cradle beside our bed.

I start awake sometime in the night.  At first I’m confused because I don’t remember any nightmares.  Then I hear it.  A grating little wail.  I’m still half asleep as I instinctually scoop up the little girl and press her to me.  I have a strange, sleepy sense of deja vu, thinking I’ve done this before, but I can’t remember where or with whom.  I just let the feeling overtake, saying things I swear I’ve said before.

“Shhh, it’s alright.  You’re alright, sweet girl.  Everything is fine.”  I stroke silky, soft hair.  “Everything is alright. Shh.”

I start waking up a little more and wonder what she wants.  She’s stopped the sharp wailing and just continues with unhappy little whimpers.  I check her diaper, but it’s clean.

“Are you hungry?” I ask more to myself than her.  Sure enough, as soon as I can unbutton my shirt, she’s suckling hungrily, pressed against my chest.  I’m glad that at least I know what she wants for the time being.  I’m dreading the nights she cries and I have no idea what she wants.  I know they’ll come soon enough.  I lean back on the headboard, settling in for the next half hour or so.

“You really eat a lot, you know that, right?” I ask her.  “You had me eating my own weight in food for a few months and now I might as well not even put on a shirt since you eat half the day anyway.”

I hear a throaty chuckle from beside me.

“Don’t be too hard on her.”

“I’m not.  Even you have to admit she eats an awful lot.”

“I’ll give you that.  It’s probably because she never stops moving, either.”

“Hmph.  Which means I’ll always be the one who has to wake up in the middle of the night.”

“Hey, now, I would’ve at least tried to calm her down first and see if it was anything else before waking you up.  Except you were in that cradle before I even knew what was happening.  And you say you’re not maternal.”

“I’m not.  It was weird, I felt like I’ve done all that before.  And I wasn’t fully awake and I was on some sort of auto-pilot.  It was just very familiar.”

“I could tell you what that is.  Whether you want to hear it or not is another story.”

“Fine, what is it?”

“Katniss, everyone knows you may as well have been Prim’s mother.  I’m sure you said the same things to her a few times.”

Of course he’s right, although I’m just realizing it.  Prim used to sleep right next to me.  I used to wake up to her cries, too.  I’d gather her up and say the same things I just said to Iris.   

“That’s what I mean when I say you’re maternal.  I don’t mean you gush and fawn over people.  I mean you just take care of them.  That’s what you do.  Even with that little scowl you have half the time, you still make sure everyone is safe.  It’s a compulsion, almost.  That’s what I mean by it.”

I don’t say anything back.  

“I’m sorry, should I not have said that?”

“No, it’s alright.  You’re right.  It just doesn’t make it any easier.”

“I know.”  Peeta sits up and gathers me into his arms.  We’re all tucked into each other, me against Peeta, Iris against me.  I start sniffling and Peeta picks up on it immediately.

“What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know.  I don’t know what to think about any of this.  First I swear I won’t have children.  Then I decide to.  I get used to the idea, and I almost lose her.  And I fight to keep her.  And then I get her home and I don’t know what to do with her, but I’m still so scared of her being even a foot away from me.  Then every way I react to her reminds me of Prim and I’m scared all over again.  What am I supposed to think about this?”

“You’re not.  You’re not supposed to think anything.  Think different things at different times of the day if you need to.  It isn’t supposed to be simple.  You’re really hard on yourself, you know that, right?”

“It’s hard not to be when you already know what to do.”

Peeta laughs at that.

“I don’t know what to do.  I’m winging this as much as you are.  It’s only day one.   Just take it a day at a time.  It’ll get better.”

I can only hope that Peeta is right.  I get Iris back to sleep and subsequently follow, falling into a bizarre, rare, dreamless sleep.

The next few days are strange for me.  Peeta and I have gotten ourselves into a nearly unbreakable routine in the last fifteen years.  Now, that’s all over.  Our days are jumbled and chaotic as we try to adapt to Iris being here.  The time we used to spend seemingly finding things to do is gone.  We’ve got our hands full with her.  Of course I anticipated that a baby would be quite needy.  But Iris seems, to me at least, to be a particularly loud and reactive baby.  If she’s not happy, everyone knows it.  At first, every time she cries, Peeta and I scramble to figure out what she wants.  A lot of times we fail to understand and are stuck with a screaming baby on our hands, hoping that eventually the swaying and rocking and soothing words will quiet her.  It is a disorderly guessing game that more often than not results in a red-faced, wailing child.

By the end of the next week, though, we have a shaky routine established.  Iris gets fed often and at the same times every day, like clockwork.  This prevents the hungry cries, at least.  We can more or less predict diaper changes.  Everything else is up in the air.  We end up sleeping, if we can, whenever Iris decides to quiet down, whenever that may be.  She doesn’t ever sleep for long, so we end up napping with her.  It’s a loose schedule, but it’s better than the chaos we suffered earlier in the week.

Once we have her more or less figured out, we start adding things back in to our schedule.  I start seeing more cake-decorating going on in the kitchen.  There’s a lot more baking in general.  Peeta paints every day in bits of spare time he can find.  This leaves me itching to get back outside.  My ankle is more or less healed, I don’t have the extra weight and girth to contend with anymore.  I want to run and climb and hunt again.  Things I haven’t done in months.  I want the boughs of a tree all around me again.  I want my bow back in my hands.  But I feel that it would be presumptuous to leave Peeta all alone with Iris.  I don’t want to ask him.

That’s why I’m surprised when it is not me that asks.  It’s Peeta.

“When do you think you’ll start going to the woods again?”

“I’m not sure.  I want to go, you know I do.  But I don’t think it’s fair to leave you alone with Iris.”

“But you can’t stay inside forever.  It’s not you.”

“Sage did say that I should take it easy for a few weeks.”

“And you planned on listening?”

“Well...no.”

“Thought not,” he smiles.  “Why don’t we try it tomorrow?  Leave her here with me, we’ll be fine.”

“I won’t stay as long, then.”

“Do whatever you need to.  Just make sure you go.”

The next day, for the first time in a long time, I slip on my old hunting boots, my father’s jacket.  I make sure to feed Iris before I leave and make sure she’s calm and happy with Peeta.  Then I’m out the door.  I’m running before I’m even beyond the fence.  It is a little strange to open a gate to get beyond the fence rather than shimmying under it.  But it doesn’t matter once I reach those hills.  I snatch my bow from the old tree trunk, get my arrows as well.  Both are slung over my shoulder and I keep moving.  I feel a little slower than normal, a little stiff.  But I am by no means unable, and I am darting through the woods, so deliriously happy to be out here and to be able to move again.  I find a particularly tall tree, with a vast web of branches.  I scramble up it like it’s my lifeline.  I am as high as I can get in it without breaking off tree limbs and falling.  I move constantly today.  I am clambering up trees, dashing up and down hills.  I hunt as much as I can, happy to be my silent self again.  I missed the tightness in the string in my bow, taking aim, hitting my mark.  

I do stick to my promise.  I don’t stay out here as long as I normally would.  People in town are quite glad to see me, although they are a little disappointed that my baby isn’t with me.  They are itching to see her.  Sage isn’t happy about seeing me with my hunting gear and my game bag, but I ignore her admonishment.  I’m far too elated to care.  

When I get home, I find Peeta in his studio, painting away with Iris cradled in one arm.  He’s talking to her like he always does.  She is particularly fascinated by his painting, watching his paintbrush as carefully as she can.

“Did you two have fun?” I ask him, even though I know the answer.

“We did, didn’t we?” he turns to her.  “She likes all the colors.  Are you a little artist, Iris?”

Iris blinks at him and burbles a little.  Peeta grins at her.  He smiles almost constantly now.  

“But did you have fun?” he asks me.  This time, it’s me who smiles.

“Yes.  It’s nice to be back. Did she give you a lot of fuss?”

“No, she was good today.  Although, we should feed her soon before she realizes she’s hungry and starts crying.”

“Mmhmm.  Come here, you.” Peeta transfers her to me.  

This system works for the rest of the week.  I go out to the woods if Peeta doesn’t have to go anywhere.  If he does have to leave, I stay.  It works until Peeta gets a rush of orders on the weekend.  And I am cooped up again.  After having to go through a few weeks of being trapped inside, I thought I’d handle this better.  But after getting it all back- my woods, my body, my agency--losing it again is more painful.  Peeta notices it quickly.

“I’m sorry, I know I’ve had a lot going on and you haven’t been outside.  You should go soon.”

“It’s not your fault.  But I can’t go outside. I can’t leave Iris alone and you have things to do.  It can’t be helped.”

“Have you ever thought of taking her with you?”

“What?”

“Taking her with you. To the woods.”

I let that sink in.  Can I really take her out there?  She is very small.  Although, I can’t think of anything especially dangerous out there.  Definitely not anything I can’t take down with one good shot.  I suppose if I went out there pregnant, there’s not much difference in going out there with her now. 

“Or I could take her, you don’t have to,” Peeta suggests when I’ve stayed silent for too long. 

“No, I could try.”

“I think she’d like it.  She obviously did when you were pregnant with her.”

“Why not?  We’ll see how she does.”

And so, the next day, I’m walking with my hunting boots and my father’s jacket on again.  Only, this time, I’ve got Iris strapped to my front, bound there by a long, woven wrap my mother used to use to carry us around.  We’re pressed stomach to stomach, her little head turned to the side, cheek resting against my chest.  She’s secure, in my line of sight at all times, and the wrap leaves my hands free.  Today I’m definitely thankful for the little gate that Peeta built.  I wouldn’t be able to take her with me if I had to wriggle under the fence.  Of course, I can’t run around because I can’t jostle Iris, but even so, it’s surprisingly easy to move around.  I’m glad I took her already.  It’ll be easier for me to get to know her and to get used to her out here where I’m comfortable.  

“Where should we go?” I ask her.  She stares blankly at me, eyes wide.

“Let’s go to the lake first.  That was your favorite before you were born.  Let’s see how you like it now.”

I carefully pick my way down the hills leading to the lake, one hand on Iris’s back.  When I get there, I sit and gently lift her out of the little pouch created by the wrap.  I turn her around, cradle her in one arm, holding her a little more upright so she can see.  I can’t help but laugh when her little eyes brighten.  She kicks her chubby legs a bit, waving her little fisted hand.  She lets out a tiny, excited, high-pitched squeak.  

“I thought you’d like it.”

Once in the woods, I start talking to her like Peeta does.  I wondered how he thinks of things to say to her.  But I realize he doesn’t.  Because I don’t have to think about it out here.  It just flows.

“My father showed me this when I was little.  Not quite as little as you, of course.  He probably would’ve thought I was crazy for bringing you out here as little as you are.”

Iris is listening, torn between watching me and watching the water glitter and ripple in the sun.

“I wish he could’ve seen you.  He would’ve liked how curious you are.”  

I start thinking of everyone who should’ve seen her.  I start telling her about them.  I know one day I’ll have to tell her again, at a time when she’ll remember it.  When she’s much older.  But I tell her now, too.  Because it’s been bothering me.  Because the truth is, as much as I may not know what to do with her, I already love her so much it frightens me.  There are so many people I wish could see her and love her like I do.  On the other side of that, I’m so frightened because I already love her like I loved the people I’m thinking of right now, the people I lost.  I’m already so scared to lose her.  The conversation turns into a strange combination between talking to her and playing the game Peeta made up for me.  I tell her about them, and think about every good thing they did in my head.

“There are a lot of people who would’ve loved you.  I had a friend named Madge who would’ve thought you were so sweet.  She probably would’ve been really surprised that I had you at all, but she would’ve been so glad to see you.  There are a lot of people I used to trade with.  In this big, busy warehouse that we called the Hob.  They would’ve been so excited to see me walk in with you.  It would’ve taken me hours to get out of there.  Everyone would’ve wanted to see you and play with you.”

Iris isn’t watching the lake anymore.  She’s blinking up at me, paying as much attention as a little newborn can.

“I don’t know where she is now, but I knew a lady named Effie who would’ve thought you were the cutest thing she’d ever seen.  If I ever see her again, she’ll want to know everything about you.  She might not want to give you back if she ever gets a hold of you.  She didn’t always understand us, but she meant well and she tried to help us.  I don’t know where these people are, either, but I knew this group of people, there were three of them.  They were supposed to make me look pretty every time I had to make an appearance.  They were very silly people.  They didn’t understand much.  But they loved me, and they would’ve lost their minds over you.  They probably would’ve wanted to dye your hair blue or something, but they would’ve loved playing with you.  They would’ve probably forgotten about me the minute they saw you.”

A lump forms in my throat as my thoughts move forward from my prep team.

“I had a friend who worked with those three.  His name was Cinna.  He understood things in a way that they didn’t.  He definitely understood me.  He was my only friend from a place that didn’t understand me, that didn’t care if I lived or died.  He kept me as safe as he could, in his own way.  And he made the most beautiful things.  He would’ve held you so gently and so quietly.  And he probably would’ve sent me a train full of things he’d made for you, just because he wanted to.  And you would’ve looked so beautiful in them.”

I’m now telling her all the good things these people did.   The thoughts can’t stay in my head anymore. The words keep escaping and I can’t stop them.

“I knew someone who would’ve laughed so hard when he saw you because he wouldn’t have thought I’d ever agree to have you. And he would’ve loved you just like you were his own baby.  His name was Finnick and he never even got to see his baby.  He could’ve picked you up and held you in one hand.  He helped me stay in one piece when I was falling apart.  And he saved my life.  He even kept me sane when I was pregnant with you and he didn’t even know it.  He never would’ve stopped smiling at you.”

Iris is still watching me intently.  I keep going.

“There was a little girl, another person who saved my life.  She knew so much about the woods.  She helped heal me, and watched out for me. She would’ve gathered you up and taken you high in the trees.  She would’ve sung to you, and all the birds would’ve joined in with her.  She would’ve rocked you back and forth and talked to you about the trees and the birds.  Her name was Rue and I loved her for the short time I knew her.”

A few tears drop onto my lap.  

“There was one more person.  I loved her as much as I love you.  She would’ve made such a fuss over you.  She would’ve cried when she first saw you, and she would’ve never wanted to let you out of her sight from then on.  She would’ve played with you and held you.  She would’ve dressed you up, and tried to braid your hair even as short as it is now, and would’ve put tiny little bows in it.  She would’ve put flowers in your room every day and would’ve been so upset when you cried and would’ve rocked you and talked to you until you stopped.  She would’ve carried you everywhere she went. She never would’ve put you down.  I think maybe she would’ve loved you more than your daddy and I do, which would be hard to do.  You would have been the most precious thing in the world to her.  Her name was Prim and she was my baby just like you are.”

I can’t speak again for a few minutes.  I just look at that baby and am so terrified and heartbroken and thankful all at once.  I take a shuddering breath.

“All those people are the reason you’re here, little one.  And I’ll thank them every day for giving me you,” I stroke her little cheek.  I know will have to play that game every day.  I cannot look at my child and not feel so in love with her and so frightened because of it.  So I will have to make that list, have to play that game every day.  But I will do it gladly.  I lift her and press her to me, kissing her tiny forehead.  She cuddles up to me immediately.  She eventually falls asleep like this, and I ease her back down into the little wrap.  She never wakes.  I gingerly get up and trek back up the hill.  She’s so small I hardly notice the extra weight, to the point where I wonder what made her feel so much heavier when she was inside me.  I even manage to hunt with her bound to me.  Peeta will probably have an aneurysm  when he finds out I was hunting with the baby on my person.  But there’s no danger I can see.  Arrows don’t rebound.  Even if they did, I never miss.  

I go into town afterwards, as usual.  As expected, everyone has a fit over Iris.  She wakes up after a few minutes, as if she can sense that she’s getting a lot of attention.  A few tell me, “She looks just like you!”  This is not true.  She has my hair, but her face favors Peeta much more than it does me.  Still, I quietly accept the statement.  Many say, “She’s adorable!”, and “She’s beautiful!” and all manner of things people usually say when gushing over babies.  Of course I agree with most of them.  But overwhelmingly, people comment on her eyes.   I hear “Look at those pretty eyes!” and “Goodness, those are the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen.”  Greasy Sae even says they look like irises before I tell her her name.  I tell everyone we named her for her eyes. They are such bright, clear, happy little eyes.  Everyone loves them for how unburdened they are.

Sage nearly chokes when she sees me at her door with both the baby and my game bag.  I laugh and tell her,  “Well, I forgot to come see you with her a few days ago.  You said to come back in a week.  It’s been more than a week.  Do you want to check on the baby or not?”

She grumbles and waves me inside.  “I told you to bring the baby here, not to take her _hunting_ with you and swing by on your way home.  Only you would bring a baby that small into the woods.”

“Actually, it was Peeta’s idea.”  Sage doesn’t believe me and gets to Iris’s checkup.  She disbelievingly deems that Iris is just fine, as if the baby would surely have something wrong with it if her parents are crazy enough to take her into the woods.  She also grudgingly looks at what’s in my game bag.  I just give her some herbs she’s eyeing as a gift for having to put up with me.  Before I leave, I make sure to tell her that Peeta paints with her in his arms, leaving Sage sputtering about chemicals.  I know that Peeta doesn’t use paints that have a lot of chemicals in them.  Half the time, he makes his own from things I find outside.  It’s just fun to watch Sage squirm.  

Just before I get home, I see Haymitch outside tending to his geese.  He must’ve run out of liquor and is waiting for the next train to come in.  He eyes me suspiciously, having not seen me since I fell and twisted my ankle.  

“Got the little bugger with you?” he asks, nodding towards the little bundle at my chest.

“Yep.  We went hunting today, didn’t we?” I ask her.

“You went hu-?” he shakes his head, not even finishing the question, rolling his eyes.  “Jesus.  Well, let me see the kid.”

I stroll over towards him and lift her out of the little wrap once more.  He peers into her little face, scowling slightly as always.

“Name?”

“Iris.”

He stares at her for a long while.  She stares right back at him, as if accepting a challenge.  I wonder if she’s going to have fire like that in her as she gets older.  Haymitch seems to notice her little defiance and chuckles.  In a rare show of sincerity he smiles a small, closed-mouth smile.

“She’s beautiful, sweetheart.”

I make my way back over to our side of the victor’s village, thinking about everyone who was so happy to see Iris.  Thankful that there are still a few people who are here who can see her.  All has not been lost.  There is still something left.  The people who died didn’t do so in vain.  I open the door smiling.

“Katniss?”

I laugh, so thankful that Peeta is here.  Thankful that I haven’t lost everyone who means something to me.  I round the corner into the kitchen, where Peeta is icing a cake.  I walk straight to him and put an arm around him, cheek resting on his shoulder, Iris between us both.  

“Are you alright?” he asks warily.

“I’m fine.  I’m just glad you’re here.”

“Was I going anywhere?”

I smile.  Poor Peeta must think I’ve lost it.  

“No.  Thankfully, no.”

Peeta doesn’t say anything else.  He just rests his cheek on the top of my head, obviously wondering where this sudden burst of affection came from, but not wanting to question it.  After a moment, I lean up to kiss him once, and then I lean down to kiss Iris’s tiny cheek.

“I’m just glad you’re both here.”


	9. Chapter 9

Ever since I took Iris out to the woods that one day, Peeta and I just take her along wherever we go. I cannot stop laughing the day that Peeta walks over the threshold wearing Iris on his front, bound to him with the same wrap I had used just the day before. He looks at me innocently, questioning.

"What?"

I gesture to the wrap, doubled over in silent laughter. He just looks confusedly at himself and Iris. He doesn't understand. I don't know whether it's funnier that I've never seen a man wear one of those before today, or that, despite this fact, Peeta looks absolutely natural wearing it. I shake my head.

"Nothing, never mind."

He brushes off my laughter and happily continues going about his day with Iris dozing against him.

After a week, Peeta discovers that I've been hunting every day regardless of whether Iris is with me or not. I come in and sling my game bag onto the table. It lands with a heavy thud. He eyes it, frowning lightly. Iris is fast asleep, chubby little cheek leaning against my breast bone.

"What's in there?" he asks. The bag sounds too heavy to be filled with plants I've gathered.

"A turkey."

"A  _turkey?_  Like, an entire turkey?"

"Yes. No one else wanted it, so I figured we could salt it up and save it."

"You...killed it?"

"No, I just happened to find it. Yes, of course I killed it."

"You were hunting?"

"Yes. Why else would I lug an entire turkey in here? No one else in town hunts."

"You were hunting. With the baby."

"Yes." I am going to try to play this off like it isn't an issue. Hopefully I can minimize the aneurysm that Peeta is already having.

"You don't think that's a little dangerous?"

"No. Why would it be?"

"Something could happen!"

"Like what? You make it sound like I was wrestling mountain lions or something. I shot a turkey."

"But what if something happened, like an arrow came back at you or something?"

I knew he'd ask that.

"Arrows don't rebound. If I had missed, it would've hit a tree. Anyway, I don't miss, so it doesn't matter. I've been doing this for a week and nothing's happened."

"A week?"

"That's right."

Peeta just looks at the floor, obviously wondering whether to protest this further.

"Peeta, look at me and tell me I'd do something that would put her in danger."

He sighs. "I know you wouldn't. It just seems really rough for a baby."

"I know. But I promise she's safe. Now cheer up, I know turkey's your favorite."

Peeta's eyes do brighten a little at the prospect.

In the same week, we send letters to our few friends with a little picture of Iris inside. The one going to my mother has three in it, to try and make up for the fact that I didn't tell her about my pregnancy until it was almost over. One goes to Annie, with a thank you to her for the advice. We also put a copy of the pictures in our book. Not that we would need them to remember what Iris looks like now. We have Peeta's paintings for that. Peeta paints her with the same frequency that he paints me. Most of the time, we're both in the painting. Me sleepily shushing her and rocking her; me asleep with my hand in her cradle, Iris clutching my little finger; me with her bound to my chest, bow and quiver and game bag slung over my back; me right after I had her, sweaty and pale and tired, staring down at her, open-mouthed. My favorite, though, is just her. It's a view of her from Peeta's vantage point. In the picture, she's staring up at an elevated paint brush, brightly watching him paint, unabashedly curious as ever. I wish there was a way to send the painting to everyone. He's captured the spark in her little blue eyes in a way that the photograph never will.

A few weeks later, I get a phone call from my mother, who has just gotten the pictures in the letter. She gushes over the pictures of Iris, dissecting all of her features, telling me which of our distant relatives she looks like. I patiently let her, all the while thinking that Iris looks much more like the Mellarks than my line of the family. When my mother finishes, she asks, "Do you think you really will bring her here to District 4?"

I sigh. My mother obviously wants to see her very badly. I know that she will not come back here. A part of me thinks it is very selfish of her to ask this of me. Even after all this time, even with my woods and Peeta to comfort me, I can barely keep myself together some days. Does she not think I am as badly damaged as she is? Does she not remember that she left her daughter a catatonic, mental Avox to go off to District 4? I have not been out of District 12 since the revolution ended. I have not seen some of the individual districts since Peeta and I were on our Victory Tour, trying furiously to calculate our every move and every word, trying to save our families and ourselves. My only memory of most of these places is a black, ominous cloud. I do not want to leave the forests of District 12, which are and have always been my haven. But I also remind myself that my mother is the only living blood-relative I have left besides my four-week-old baby. Even though I want to tell her everything I'm thinking, it will do no good to be mean to my mother about this. She will not change and neither will I. We do not get along, our relationship is irreparably strained, but she is still my mother.

"We might. Give me a day to talk to Peeta about it. I'll call you tomorrow, okay?"

She enthusiastically tells me when she'll be close to the phone tomorrow before hanging up. I make my way back into the kitchen where Peeta is busy putting icing flowers on those cookies he makes, Iris strapped to his front. She seems particularly fascinated by the orange icing. I wonder idly if orange is her favorite color like Peeta.

"What did your mother have to say?" Peeta asks as he starts on a new tray of cookies.

"She wants us to come to District 4 to visit her. She wants to see Iris."

Peeta nods, still icing. "So are you going to go?"

"Well, I wanted to ask you about it."

"I don't mind either way. You just decide what you want to do and I'll follow along."

"I think I should go. I haven't seen her in fifteen years. Even though it is annoying that we're the ones who have to uproot and go there."

Peeta chuckles. "It doesn't make a lot of sense, does it? But I agree with you. I didn't want to say, but I think it's a good idea to go. She's the only family you've got besides us, and you still have her."

I nod. I selfishly forget sometimes that Peeta lost his whole family when District 12 burned. Both his parents, his brothers. It seems that Peeta remembers a little too keenly right now. His eyes clench shut and he leans down to grip the edge of the table, white-knuckled. I immediately get up, circle the table, and loop my arms around his waist from behind him. I've got my cheek resting against his shoulder blade, saying the same things I always do when this happens.

"It's alright, Peeta. It's not real, whatever it is, it's not real. You're safe, you're in your house in the Victor's Village. It's alright-"

I hear little whimpers emanate from the direction of Peeta's chest. Iris knows something is amiss. She doesn't like what's happening to her daddy. The little whimpers break into wailing and I tense. Loud, jarring noises are never good when this happens. I know Peeta would never hurt her, not even now in one of his spells, but I am afraid that her crying will scare him. As I suspected, Peeta tenses more.

"What's going on?" he asks urgently. "She's crying, are they hurting her?"

I wince. "No, no one has her. She's fine, she's right here with you. She's probably just worried about you."

He shakes his head wildly. "Then why can't I see her?"

"You don't have to be able to see her. Trust me, she's here. You're both here with me, you're both safe."

Peeta grits his teeth so hard I hear them grind against each other. Iris's wails pick up. They're keeping each other going in a vicious circle. I have to get them both to calm down, so I do the only thing left I know to do. I start singing, eyes closed, cheek still pressed against Peeta. Iris is the first to quiet down. Her cries gradually taper off until all that remain are a few stray mewls. Peeta follows. I know he's back with me when he sighs and the muscles in his back relax.

"I'm sorry-"

"Don't be."

"But I had her with me, something could've-"

"Peeta, I've taken her hunting with me. This was low-key for her."

He smiles quietly and grudgingly. He slowly goes back to icing the cookies that are laid out in front of him. After a few more minutes, he's able to pick up the conversation again.

"So we're going to District 4. When do you want to go?"

"Soon," I sigh. I don't want to go, so waiting will just result in it hanging over my head until we leave. "In the next couple of weeks."

Peeta nods silently. "Why don't we just go next week? You'll be hung up on it as long as we're waiting to leave. May as well not delay it."

"I think that would be best."

"Don't worry so much about it, either. You might enjoy going. There's no pressure this time."

I nod and try to convince myself that he could be right. After a moment, Peeta pauses in his work, thinking about something.

"Do you think we should see if Haymitch wants to go? I mean, he hasn't been out of the District in years either."

It seems right for Haymitch to come along with us. He was with us the last time we were in most of these places. He's one of the few people who will understand if we don't react well to all this. We all may be able to help each other through it. He is still our mentor, even after all this time and even if the relationship has always been rocky.

"Yeah, we should ask him. It'll probably be more entertaining drinking in District 4 for a while instead of in his house."

Peeta laughs at this. I know what he's thinking. Haymitch loves getting ahold of alcohol native to the District he's in. It was like a scavenger hunt the entire time we were on our Victory Tour. Beer in District 9, all manner of expensive liqueurs in District 1, whiskey in District 11, harsh vodka in District 2, brandy in District 7, and dark rum in District 4. Haymitch will be sniffing out rum immediately upon reaching 4. It may be a challenge getting him back on the train here. The fishermen of District 4 are not light drinkers and even a veteran alcoholic like Haymitch can get blindsided by the stuff.

"Look, he's outside now," Peeta nods to the window. I turn around. Haymitch is feeding the few bedraggled geese he keeps. Thank goodness they don't need a lot of attention. They may get fed every other day if they're lucky.

"He can sense the opportunity for stronger alcohol," I mutter. Peeta smiles and crosses the kitchen to the window. He shoves it open and leans out.

"Hey Haymitch!" He shouts across the green in the middle of the Victor's Village. Iris squeaks after him, craning her little neck, imitating her daddy. I go to stand behind them, peeking out over Peeta's shoulder. Haymitch staggers a few steps and then shrugs, annoyed, in the direction of our window. He stands and waits for Peeta to continue.

"You wanna go to District 4?"

"Why the hell would I want to do that?" we hear him growl across the expanse.

"Because we're going and you love us," I call flatly and sarcastically.

He makes a rude gesture at me.

"Why in the hell are you going to District 4?"

"Katniss's mother wants to see her grandchild," Peeta points down to the little bundle at his chest. Iris is still chirping excitedly, responding each time Peeta speaks. He smiles at her indulgently. She's never made this much noise other than screaming. I smile too and decide to see if she'll do it for me later.

"Yay for her," Haymitch sarcastically makes repeated, sarcastic, celebratory circles with his index finger. "Why am I being pulled into this?"

"We thought it might be more fun than sitting in your house," Peeta responds. I follow with, "Don't tell me you've forgotten about District 4's rum!"

He sneers at me, but I can tell it's my comment that turns him around.

"Fine, when do we leave?"

Peeta and I look at each other and shrug.

"A week from today!" Peeta calls, decided.

"Wake me up a week from today!" he slurs before disappearing back into his house. I nod once before turning to peer into Iris's little face. She stares at me, wide-eyed.

"You found your voice, didn't you?" I ask her. She chirrups at me, craning her neck again, recognizing when people are talking to her. I can't help but grin.

"You know how to talk back now."

She peeps again, something akin to a toothless grin enveloping her face for a split second before she goes back to staring at me curiously. Peeta is beside himself.

"Can you do it again?" he asks, grinning. She obliges and makes the same thin little squeaks. "What a pretty voice," he laughs. She chirps particularly sharply when Peeta talks to her. This becomes the game of the week. We talk to her and she squeaks back at us. This does backfire once in the woods when I'm hunting. She gets impatient, upset that I'm not talking to her and she squawks indignantly at me, scaring off the birds I've been tracking for a while. I decide then that hunting should be done when she's asleep.

Before I know it, Peeta and I are hauling Haymitch, Iris, and a weighty assortment of bags onto a train bound for District 4. Thankfully the train is not as heavily ornamented as the ones Peeta and I were forced onto during the year we traveled to and from the Capitol and to the Districts. We sit in individual seats instead of moving from car to car, although there are cars for eating and sleeping. It will take a few days to reach the end of District 4 that my mother lives in. Peeta and I settle in next to each other, Iris cuddled up to me. Haymitch sits a few rows ahead, stretching out unceremoniously and occupying two seats, immediately passing out. There is only one other passenger on the train besides us, and she ducks into a different car. It is just the four of us so far.

We will have to go west a little through a small corner of District 10, then south through District 11, and finally to District 4. I stare warily out the window as the train inches slowly forward out of District 12's tiny station. I am impossibly nervous.

"Try to enjoy it," Peeta suggests quietly. "Remember all that dreck Effie told us about how wonderful it would be to see all the Districts? Well, this time it could be true. There's no pressure this time. No charged fences, no watch towers, no guns, no peacekeepers, no speeches. Just try to find what's beautiful about each."

I nod wordlessly at him. We are in 10 in only an hour. District 12 is that tiny, and the train moves so fast. Like in 12, the old fence still stands, but is uncharged and the wire has been removed from the top. This one is higher than the one I wriggle under every day, but not as high as the one Peeta and I saw going into 11. At first, it's hard to find any geographical differences between the two. But soon we move downward out of the round mountains of 12. The landscape flattens a bit. I don't remember much of 10. The only District I remember with a lot of detail from our tour is 11. I wish I had remembered more of this District. Green pastures start flitting by the window. They are long, expansive, flat, and emerald. Soon I start seeing cattle dotting the pastures as they fly by the window. It is a monotonous sort of beauty. To see the same thing stretch on for what seems like forever. For a while, we don't see much sign of civilization beyond the occasional house every few pastures or so. But soon, we start seeing people as we get farther in the district. They look up and watch the train move past. Little girls perched on wooden fences, wearing their hair braided in pigtails like Prim used to. Young men and women out in the pastures, dolling out feed to their livestock. People galloping on horses, herding droves of cattle. We see some sheep later, little white clouds against the green. Once, I even see a man whistling at a few dogs, and they bark and snap at hooved heels, doing the herding for him. After a while, I fall asleep to the movement of the train, leaning against the window, Iris at my front, her tiny, warm weight leaning against me.

When I awaken, the train has lurched to a stop. It is only stopping at one small station in 10 before moving on. It will stop three or four times in 11. A few people board the train, and I watch out the window, observing. I remember during both tribute parades that the tributes from 10 were always dressed in strange, wide hats and pointed boots. I am surprised to find that a lot of people do indeed wear them, although they are, of course, much more muted and practical-looking than anything the Capitol stylists ever dreamed up. Their skin tends to be golden-brown and slightly leathery from long days in treeless pastures, under bright sun. That must be why they wear the hats. They wear a lot of leather as well. I am glad to see that their faces are generally rounder and brighter than I remember. They are more muscular, too, since they are allowed to keep the livestock they raise now. I am staring out the window at the people milling about in the station when one of them locks eyes with me. She frowns lightly at me for a minute before her eyes clear. She turns to someone next to her and nudges him. She nods towards me and he looks, too. His eyebrows shoot up into his sun-bleached hair. They start flagging down the people near them, smiling, and I realize what's happening. They've recognized me and Peeta through the window. I should've known this would happen. But I didn't, and I am unprepared for this. It brings me immediately back to our Victory Tour, to my visit to the hospital in District 8. People overjoyed to see me, everyone knowing who I am. I tremble lightly.

"It's alright, Katniss, they're just happy to see you. Nothing's going to happen."

I nod, but I still cross an arm protectively over Iris, curled over her back, hand cupping the back of her little head, hiding her from their view.

"They're not going to hurt her, either. But if it'd make you feel better, do you want me to take her? So she's not so close to the window?"

I nod, swallowing a dry lump in my throat. He gingerly gathers her up, moving her away from the window, but not before a few people spot her. They clap their hands to their mouths, they grin, they point and gesture. They are ecstatic to see the baby. I pretend I don't notice them and look ahead at the back of the seat in front of me. A few people board the car that we're on. Some look disapprovingly at Haymitch, but all take to staring at the three of us. Some smile, some gape open-mouthed, some just shoot us periodic, curious glances. Peeta smiles politely at them and lets me keep looking directly and pointedly forward. Blessedly soon, we crawl out of the station in District 10, leaving the small crowd of excited people behind. Eventually, those in the car with us stop looking at us and go back to their own activities. I exhale, shoulders relaxing as the train veers south towards District 11. It skirts the side of the mountain chain that runs from District 12 to the border of District 11. We'll then move east a touch, since all trains going to District 11 go through the same square that Peeta and I went to on our victory tour so many years ago. Half the trains on the eastern end of Panem go through that station. People say it used to be a huge rail hub before the dark days. Some of the tracks we travel on now are from that time. It is mind-boggling how ancient they must be. We will reach that station tomorrow morning. We will be traveling non-stop for the rest of the day.

I sleep a lot of the morning and part of the afternoon until Iris decides she's bored and takes to the high-volume wailing she does. After Peeta tries for a half an hour to shush her, I try feeding her. She won't eat, though, and keeps doggedly screaming. I get up and pace the aisle between the seats to try and calm her. I am wincing, mentally apologizing to everyone in the car with us for having to listen to her. One is asleep, magically able to sleep through her crying fit. Two glance at her a few times, but seem otherwise unfazed. One pointedly ignores me. Two older women eye me sympathetically, obviously having dealt with this sort of thing before. No one besides Haymitch gives me any dirty looks, though. I am at least grateful that being the Mockingjay has spared my being a social pariah for bringing a loud, screaming baby onto a quiet train where passengers can't escape the noise. Haymitch, however, does not spare my feelings.

"You can survive two arenas and a revolution, and yet you can't shut that kid up," he growls. Thankfully, we're all in the back of the long car, so the few people in here with us don't hear him.

"You want to try? Be my guest," I snap, moving towards him with the baby. He pulls his flask out of his pocket.

"Just give her a little of this, she'll shut up," he cackles.

I yank her back to me. "Give me a real solution and I may listen to a word you're saying."

"Fine. I'll be right back."

Haymitch disappears off in the direction of the dining car. I roll my eyes, expecting another joke and keep pacing with Iris. He staggers back in a few minutes later with a cup of something. I eye it warily.

"If that's liquor, I swear-"

"Save it, sweetheart. You got a clean handkerchief or towel and one of those?" he gestures to the band that ties my long braid. I narrow my eyes, but go fishing for what he wants in one of our jubilee of bags.

"Peeta bring any bread? Sweet is better. They don't have any made yet," he slurs, gesturing to the dining car while I'm rummaging through our bags. Peeta's lips thin suspiciously, but he produces a sweet roll from our lunch bag. Haymitch lunges for it, snatching it up. He swipes a thin, worn handkerchief from me and one of the leather bands I use to tie my hair. He tears off a hunk of the bread and dips it in the cup.

"What's in there?" I demand. He stares at me, deadpanned.

"Honey. Taste it if you don't trust me."

I do taste it because I don't trust Haymitch one damn bit. It is indeed honey. He sneers at me and continues. He puts the honeyed bread in the middle of the square of cloth, and ties it up. The bread is in the end of the handkerchief, with a long tail of fabric hanging the other direction.

"Give me the kid," he demands wearily. I back away a few steps. He keeps staring at me.

"Gimme the kid or let her keep screaming her lungs off. Your choice, sweetheart."

I hesitantly pass her to Haymitch. He is surprisingly careful with her, if not a bit bored with her. He pops the end with the bread in it in her mouth mid-scream. Almost immediately she clamps her tiny jaws shut and starts sucking away at what I realize is a makeshift pacifier. He raises an eyebrow at me, with a silent Iris cradled in the crook of his elbow.

"And why didn't you tell me to do this two hours ago?"

"Too drunk to remember," he shrugs, unashamed.

"Is that good for her?" Peeta asks, distrustful.

"I know for a fact that every parent in the Seam has been doing this since the dark days," he bites back. "I remember seeing that one," he gestures at me, "with one in her mouth almost all the time. And look how good she turned out," he trails off sarcastically.

"Then why don't I remember seeing anyone do that?" I ask.

"Because you can be remarkably unobservant. She'll be fine with it for a few days. Get a real pacifier when you get to 4," he growls, handing her back to me.

Other than Iris's screaming fit, the rest of the day is very calm. I just watch the low, round, green, mountains snake by outside, watch the smoky-looking fog curl around them. We go to bed fairly early, tired out by the nervousness of the day. Haymitch never moves from the two seats across the aisle. We don't wake him. He'll just stumble around, belligerent, if we do. I fall asleep quickly to the rocking and swaying of the train.

When we wake the next morning, I can feel how much warmer the train is. It is early spring now, but 12 stays cool for a while. We must be very close to District 11, then, because I can feel the balmy air drifting in from our cracked window, can see that the mountains we've been trailing have been reduced to foothills. When we venture out into the same car we sat in yesterday, I see the familiar sunniness that says we're approaching the border. The only way I can tell we've crossed into District 11 is an old ditch where the fence once stood. The thing must've extended underground a ways to make sure that no one could escape. District 11 has deigned to remove the fence, for which I am grateful. It was the most threatening border out of all the districts. I will never forget the massive fence with the razor-wire on top, the watch towers spaced perfectly and manned with heavily armed peacekeepers.

I see the same fields and orchards, but the people working them do not look so hunched over, so broken. They still straighten to watch the train as they did when I first passed through, but they do not wince when they do so this time. The children are not chased into the trees, but are allowed to run in the meadows around their houses. The elderly are not forced into back-breaking work, but sit on tiny front porches in front of what used to be shacks, but that are now not so ramshackle. People smile slow, easy smiles. And everything is so much more colorful than I remember. I forgot that it is spring, and I visited in winter. Everything in the District is blooming. The orchards that flit by are splashes of color. Wildflowers blanket all the meadows. Even the soil, at least in this part of 11, is colorful. Last time I couldn't see it, it was so heavily covered with crops. But planting is beginning right now, so I can see it. I laugh.

"Peeta, look at the dirt."

He leans over to look out. His eyebrows shoot up and he smiles, too.

"Oh my god. It's red."

And it is. It's bright orange-red clay the color of Hazel's braided pigtails. I've never seen a place so naturally colorful. Not false color like the Capitol. It is beautiful and as natural and easy as breathing. All I can think about is how I wish Rue could've lived to see her District like this. I cannot tear my eyes away from the window until we reach our first station in 11, the same one we came through all those years ago. The square is still not all that crowded, because only a fraction of 11 lives close to it. But there are definitely more people here than at the tiny station in 10. I watch them mill about, a dense crowd, though they are only a sliver of the population that lives here. So many more smiles than I saw before. Faces are rounder, eyes brighter. But I do look away before people start recognizing me, because I know they will. If the tiny station in District 10 did, the largest station in 11 definitely will. I expect to hear a rise in excited chatter like I did in 10. But instead, the station slowly gets quieter. The only thing I hear are a few people boarding our car. I fidget in the quiet, uneasy, until Peeta nudges me.

"Katniss, look. Look out the window."

I don't oblige immediately. I don't know if I can face the collective gaze of Rue's District. I cannot think about the solidarity of District 11 without a lump forming in my throat, even after fifteen years.

"Please look. You have to," Peeta urges.

The train is about to pull out of the station before I look. I force my head to the left. I cannot stop the tears that spill over. The entire station has frozen completely. No one moves. It is a station full of statues. Every last person in that station stands facing me, holding up the first three fingers of their left hand. They gradually recognized me through the window and stopped everything to acknowledge me, giving me the sign of my District. Small children look questioningly at me, little hands in the air. Older ones look with fresh eyes, but more understanding. Those from about age twenty and above look on with familiarity, recognition. And someone, I can't tell who, whistles Rue's four-note tune. It must be someone who remembers what happened when I was here last. The whole platform responds, erupting in the little whistled tune. Even small children know it by heart. It must've become a sign for their entire District, a musical version of District 12's gesture. I shift Iris to my other arm, not caring if they see her, half hoping they do. I am not afraid of the people of District 11. How can I be with such weight between us? The brakes on the train loosen as I press the first three fingers of my left hand to my lips, and raise them in the air. I hold my arm there as the train rolls slowly out of the station. The people on the platform keep their arms in place too. Neither of us breaks it until we are out of each others' sight.

I never thought that word could travel faster than a train. But travel it does. Within a few hours, the people hunched over tilling soil, running in meadows, sitting on porches, perched in trees stop when they see the train. And they give the same gesture everyone on the platform did. The same thing happens at the remaining two stations we stop at in 11. People quiet as soon as we roll into the station. The same acknowledgement, the four-note tune. I choke back tears and clutch Iris to me the whole way through 11, which takes the entire day. A balmy night has fallen by the time we roll out of the last station. I lower my arm and inhale the warm, fragrant air that blows in from the open window. A deep, cobalt blue night has fallen on the District. We can barely see them because the train is so fast, but little, yellow, glowing insects are hovering around the meadows and children run after them trying to catch them in jars, parents watching from afar. The night here sounds so alive. Birds still chirr and prattle lightly, some sort of insect living here makes a soothing, chattery whisper with its wings. It collectively forms a still, natural white noise. I finally relax now. It has been a gruelingly difficult day for me. Even so, I wouldn't have missed it. I have never forgotten the kindness of District 11 and, after today, I know they haven't forgotten me.

My exhaustion overtakes me quickly and I doze, lulled into sleep by the emotional stress of the day and the natural lullaby of District 11 that I hear through the open window. Some time later, I am vaguely aware of Peeta gingerly gathering Iris from my now-lax arms. I think he hands her off to Haymitch momentarily so he can gather me up, too. My arms wrap around him, vice-like as he walks me to our little room a few cars down. My face is buried in his shoulder, both trying to forget the events of the day and trying to burn them into my memory. I'm not aware of my own tears until I feel Peeta's thumb run gently under my eyes, drying them.

"You did such a good job today," he murmurs kindly and quietly. I just keep clinging to him, glad that someone understands how difficult this journey has been already. To face things I've been trying to escape, things I've been running from for fifteen years. Seeing bloody, haunting memories flit across my eyelids every time I blink, hearing the voices of passed friends and loved ones with everything I take in. Peeta understands. He feels it too. He remembers. He was with me for almost every second of it. I only wish I could be as steady as he is.

He gently sits me down on our little bed. Haymitch follows him in, cradling Iris. I make a sleepy, mental note to ask Haymitch sometime how he knows so much about babies. He holds her easily, with a sense of experience. I must look very upset, because Haymitch softly growls, "It's alright, sweetheart. You did well."

He goes to lower Iris in the plain little cradle the train provided us, leaving Peeta to deal with me. He slips out of the room, closing our door with a nearly imperceptible click. Peeta pulls me down to lie on the bed. My head is tucked under his chin, arms clutching him, his own wide, strong arms curled around me, guarding me protectively. It is all so very familiar to me. Peeta steadfastly comforting me, both of us huddled together in one bed, the swaying and rocking of the train. The only thing new is one of Peeta's hands dangling off the bed into Iris's cradle. I fall asleep burrowed into Peeta, listening to my daughter's infinitesimally quiet breath, and the slow, easy, warm song of District 11.

When I wake, I am instantly aware of the bitter, almost acrid, but pleasant smell of saltwater. The air is even warmer now, but is drier, not as humid and balmy. It is a sharper heat. I know we have crossed into District 4 sometime during the night. Peeta is already up. He's over by the window, holding Iris up. He's murmuring to her, pointing at things. She twitters occasionally at him. From the angle of the sun, I know it is late morning. I must've been quite tired, since I never sleep this late. I get up and join them at the window. I smile. Coastline flashes by the window, stretching on for what seems like forever.

District 4 is a fairly narrow peninsula that extends far down below the rest of Panem. It's south and west of District 11, in what used to be a very large gulf. We are going to the southern tip of it. Right now, the terrain is dry, scrubby, and rocky. But I know as we travel south, it will become lush and tropical. Even in this dry area, the ocean is breathtaking. We skirt a sheer cliff, flanked by rocky, orange-yellow mountains on our other side. The water beats against the cliffside, frothy and foamy below us. Already, we see fishing vessels dotting the shallows, bobbing with the tossing water. We will see even more as the cliffs level out and become flat, sandy beaches.

"She likes it," Peeta grins.

"She likes water, I think." After all, the lake was her favorite while she was still inside me.

We go out to the main car to sit and watch District 4 zip past the window. The landscape levels out in a few hours. Rocks are replaced with strips of lush jungle. Sometimes, the peninsula is so thin I swear I can see the sea on both sides of us. As sandy beaches replace rocky cliffs, we start seeing more boats bobbing offshore. Little, ramshackle, seaside cabins dot the jungle line. People weave thick, sea-strong rope and nets on the beaches from plants they find in the jungle. Children run along the waterline, and swim out into the waves, powerful swimmers even now as young as they are. Older ones practice throwing harpoons and fishing nets at targets, making a game of it. Almost everyone goes barefoot, most just wear swimming clothes. Peeta, Haymitch, and I look so strange here in our clunky boots, thick corduroy, flannel, and leather, dressed for our cool, wooded hills and mountains.

It is late afternoon when we pull into our station. When I step out of the train, I immediately wish I were dressed more like the natives of the District. The air here in the south of the District is even more humid than in 11. It is thick, hot, and close and I am sweating almost immediately. I didn't think to put on some of the clothes I packed that I still have from when Cinna dressed me for District 4. I will change as soon as we get to my mother's house. Peeta seems to be thinking along the same lines. He squints uncomfortably. Haymitch seems unconcerned. He's either too drunk or too preoccupied with the task of finding some of District 4's dark rum as quickly as possible.

I scan the platform for a few minutes, dodging the curious, excited gazes of everyone who recognizes us, trying to spot my mother. I spot her on the far left edge of the platform. She smiles widely when she sees me. District 4 has been good to her. Her eyes are not as troubled, her shoulders don't seem as weighted. I wonder if I now look as burdened as she used to. She wears a gossamer, long, flowing dress a bit like the few she brought to the Seam when she married my father. Of course, this fabric breathes more, I'm sure. It is strange, a bit bitter, but undeniably good to see my mother again.

I walk towards her slowly, dragging Peeta along behind me by the hand. I leave Haymitch to his own devices. He staggers along behind us. When I reach her she wordlessly throws her arms around me and clings to me with a strength I didn't think she was capable of. I am remembering that I may as well have been Prim's mother and, in a way, I may as well have been my own mother's mother after my father died. She has looked to me for answers since then. I rub her back comfortingly when she sniffles, buried in my collarbone.

"It's okay, mom."

She nods in assent, unable to speak. After a moment, she pulls back and holds me at arm's length, examining me. There is a wistful, nostalgic, melancholy wonder in her eyes. I realize why it's there. I was seventeen years old last time my mother saw me. I am now nearly thirty-three. I know I am a little taller, a little less wiry. She puts one hand lightly on my cheek and I know she's looking at very faint lines that started appearing there in my late twenties. I examine her, too. She looks a little more delicate than she used to, although my mother has always been fragile. Her blonde hair is much lighter because it is streaked with gray. The lines on her face are deeper. But her eyes don't look as tired as they once did, and her skin has adopted the golden cast that everyone in District 4 has. She finally speaks, hand still on my cheek.

"Katniss."

"Hi mom. I'm glad to see you."

"I'm glad to see you, too. And Peeta, it's so good to see you."

She moves to embrace Peeta as well. He returns it and politely smiles.

"It's good to see you too, Mrs. Everdeen."

My mother notices Haymitch squinting and scowling in the background.

"Haymitch! I was surprised to hear on the phone that you were coming. It was a lovely surprise."

"S' good to see you," he slurs halfheartedly, eyes scanning our surroundings. He's already looking for rum. My mother's eyes move to the little bundle tucked in Peeta's arm. I reach over and pluck Iris out of the crook of his arm.

"Mom, this is Iris." I hand her to my mother, who stares open-mouthed at her and eagerly gathers her up. She cradles her with the practiced ease of someone who has had more than one baby.

"She's got your hair," she grins. "You had a head of hair just like it when you were a baby. And she's got such pretty eyes."

We stand and let my mother fawn over Iris for a few minutes. Soon, she starts as if having forgotten something. She starts craning her neck, looking around the platform.

"What are you looking for?" I ask her. I don't get an answer from her before she speaks again.

"There they are."

I look over to my right and pot two more familiar faces. One I know very well, the other I've only seen in photographs, not that it would matter. I'd recognize those eyes anywhere. It is Annie and her son, Killian.

"They only live a station up from here. I told Annie you were coming with the baby and she wanted to see you. I hope that was alright. It may be another fifteen years before we manage to get you out of District 12."

I nod. "Of course.

I can't say anything else. I am strangely overjoyed to see them, to see one more person who truly understands. And I am overjoyed to see her son, smiling, unaffected, even having lost his father before he was born and having a mother damaged by the war and the Games. It gives me hope for my own child. Annie smiles her soft, ethereal smile.

"Hi Katniss," she says in her airy voice, reaching forward and pulling me into an equally light, almost immaterial embrace. I return it wholeheartedly. Even though Annie and I didn't have a lot of contact for the short time we both lived in District 13, we are undeniably friends. We were made friends through mutual loss. It is an odd, unexplained, understood relationship.

"Peeta," she grins, turning to give him the same welcome. He smiles and returns it, but I can see his jaw clench. Annie was imprisoned by the Capitol at the same time he was. Peeta is fighting not to have a relapse on a crowded train platform in front of people who either undeniably recognize him or whom he hasn't seen in 15 years. I put a hand between his shoulder blades to try and ground him. He relaxes a touch. When she lets go of him, she turns to acknowledge the boy hanging curiously behind her.

"I know you've seen him in pictures, but I want to introduce you to my son, Killian."

Annie doesn't need to tell Killian who we are. I can see respectful recognition in his eyes when he shakes each of our hands. He has probably known us as the people his father died for since he was young. He's already muscularly built at only fourteen. He looks just like Finnick did in the tapes from his first games. I realize he's the same age as Finnick was when he won his games. The only thing different is that he has his mother's wavy brown hair. He seem so much younger than Finnick did, though. He's allowed to act his age.

Annie notices Haymitch lurking behind us and greets him brightly. He slurs the same obligatory greeting and continues to squint, hungover, against the bright sun. We all follow my mother to the tiny cabin she's lodged in. LIke all the dwellings here, it's right along the beach. Most of the houses here stand far above the ground on strange stilts. We follow her up a long flight of stairs. Here, this is a small dwelling, but our house that held four people in the Seam was no bigger. She has a small spare room that has recently been converted into something of a guest room. There's a little crib in there for Iris. I suppose Haymitch has been relegated to the couch in her small sitting room. There's a tiny kitchen and her bedroom, which holds the few photographs I salvaged from District 12 after the bombings. I can hear the soft rumble and whisper of the ocean constantly in here.

My mother still has not let go of Iris. She bounces and cradles her, smiling and cooing at her. Iris obviously enjoys the extra attention. A few times she even peeps back like she always does for Peeta. Once we've dropped all of our bags in the guest room and changed into lighter clothing that suits the climate, my mother speaks.

"I do have to go to the hospital for just a few minutes today. You all should come too. I want you to see what I've done with it. I know the patients would love to see you two."

My stomach lurches. I detest hospitals. And her indication that the patients would like to see me floods my mind with memories of my touring that hospital in District 8 all those years ago. I do not have the stomach for injury and illness. But I don't know what other option I have besides agreeing to go along with her. Not without hurting her and causing a scene immediately upon arriving here in District 4. I swallow hard and nod, following my mother back out the door, the whole procession of guests behind me.

My mother really has accomplished quite a feat in helping to build this hospital. It's one of the largest in the District. Much like in District 12, before the revolution, medicine here was primitive, especially this far south in the District. Even though District 4 has always been wealthier than 12, they still were not allowed access to the Capitol's advanced medical technology. I know my mother's hospital has made an immense difference. The building is large, four stories, cement, and blocky. It's designed to accommodate a large portion of the southern half of District 4. My mother returns Iris to me as we walk in. we're in a large, lobby-like space. It is open, airy, with wall-sized glass windows reminiscent of a lot of the buildings I remember from the Capitol. I know it was built this way to give the building a calming essence. I, however, feel that it is forged and almost mocking. To try and disguise a painful place as a thing of beauty. But then, I am not a good gauge of things because I am wildly distrustful of and alarmed by hospitals.

My mother doesn't work in one ward. She floats around and gives help where it is needed. She's always been like that. My mother is a shrinking violet until a medical emergency arises. Then, she is unafraid and undeniably alive. The worse the condition, the more alert she is. It makes sense for her to want to be where the urgency is. She has told the hospital that she won't be around for a few days because of my visit. But as one of the few that manages the hospital, my mother couldn't resist coming in on a day off just to make sure everything is running smoothly. I am also suspicious that she wants her friends here to see Iris. My mother is ecstatic over her because she loves babies. I think the happiest I remember her is when Prim was a baby. She was always smiling. I'm sure she was just as enthusiastic when I was that small, although I have been told that I was a very serious, and slightly stubborn baby. Prim was sweeter.

As expected, my mother shows Iris to everyone she can find. At first, they are excited to see Peeta and me. Then they notice the tiny, ruddy baby pressed to my chest and they lose it. I can handle the fawning of my mother's friends. I can handle some of the patients. But there is a ward we cross through that I can barely bear. It is full of people damaged from the Revolution. People with permanent conditions. Some have chronic illnesses from injuries they suffered or chemicals they came in contact with. Some have psychological illnesses. Some have lost limbs or suffered paralysis. I cannot bear these people because they are the ones who are the most excited to see me and Iris. After all, I symbolize what these people lost a part of themselves for. Some smile widely and it looks lopsided, as if they haven't smiled in so long they've forgotten how. Some grasp my hand, or reach for my shoulder, some stroke my face, or thumb the end of my braid. I know that Peeta is receiving similar treatment a few paces behind me.

But it is the reaction to my child that is the strongest. The widest smiles are elicited by her. Some openly weep when they see her. Many comment on how she has my hair, or Peeta's eyes. A few gently hover their hands over her little back. One, a very young woman who must've been a child during the war, just reaches up and takes Iris's tiny, chubby hand between her thumb and index finger. Iris lightly grasps the woman's finger in her tiny, pink fist. The woman's eyes light up and she softly strokes the back of my daughter's hand with her thumb.

Once I escape that ward, I lean against a cool, white wall clutching Iris to me for dear life. Peeta appears soon after, obviously unfazed. He notices my face and is at my side immediately.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs. My ears prick at the note of culpability in his statement.

"Why?"

"For your having to deal with all this. And because I said it was a good idea."

The trip has been surprisingly difficult already. But I'm realizing that everything I'm facing right now, my daughter is going to have to face. I should be aware. I shouldn't coop us all up in District 12 and not prepare her for how her world will react to her. I don't intend on venturing out often, but I am glad in a perverse way that we decided to come to District 4.

"No, it needed to happen."

He frowns lightly.

"I'll explain later. For now, let's get out of here."

A warm, humid, salty, balmy dusk has fallen on District 4 by the time we leave. There's still a line of orange against the ocean when we get to my mother's house. We cook a dinner on the beach. Killian excitedly builds a fire out of driftwood. The salt on the wood makes it burn blue. He takes me out into the shallows to try to teach me spear-fishing. His aim is frighteningly accurate. I fare pretty well. I would've done better with my bow, but with practice, I could be a decent fisher. Killian tells me I do better than I actually do.

"Mom said you had good aim. She wasn't kidding. If we ever get to District 12, maybe you could teach me how to shoot a bow."

"Sure. We'll make a hunter out of you yet. Teach you to get them right in the eye," I smile, enjoying how enthusiastic and at-ease Killian is. We cook the fish over the blue driftwood fire. Killian is responsible for most of the dinner, but I contribute three decent-sized fish. Haymitch is content on the far side of the fire, drinking straight out of a handle of dark, spiced rum. I can smell the bitterness from across the fire. Iris is comfortable in the crook of my mother's arm.

To our right, Killian is telling Annie something while she listens with rapt attention. I lean against Peeta, thinking. After he finishes his dinner, Killian's attention turns to Iris. We let him hold her, talk to her, make faces at her. She responds as much as she can. While they're occupied, I turn to Annie.

"How do you deal with it?" I blurt.

Annie answers, unfazed.

"However I can."

Peeta, confused, asks, "How do you deal with what?"

"With telling him about everything. Telling him why everyone knows who his father is and that's why they know him. Telling him why everyone has felt sorry for him all his life," Annie trails off, staring at nothing in particular, as she is wont to do.

"How do you know when to tell him? How am I supposed to tell her about the Games and-" I stop my downward spiral when Annie claps her hands over her ears and her eyes clench shut. I wince. I feel terrible that I don't know what triggers Annie and I've caused somewhat of a relapse. Killian is over by his mother in seconds. He's still got Iris tucked in his elbow. She continues her happy burbling, very entertained by him. He does politely hand her to Peeta, though, so he can focus on Annie.

"Mom, it's okay. Open your eyes. C'mon, it's okay." He has an arm around her shoulders with a practiced ease that tells me he's done this many times before. He gently takes her hands and pries them away from her ears. After a minute or so, she opens her eyes.

"See? It's fine, everything is okay." She keeps a hold of his hand for a few more minutes before nodding.

"Thank you, sweetheart," she murmurs, patting his hand. He nods, grinning, and scampers back off to find more wood for the fire.

"I'm sorry," I scramble to apologize. I know what it's like when something triggers Peeta. The last thing I want to do is cause any sort of psychological trouble. Annie shakes her head lightly.

"Oh, it happens every day. Don't worry," she smiles softly. "To answer your question, don't worry about what to tell her and when. She'll let you know when she's ready."

"I hope I'm not prying, but how much does Killian know?" Peeta asks tentatively.

"He knows that when I was young, we were ruled by the Capitol. He knows that the Districts were forced to produce for them, that it was little more than enslavement. He knows that there were Games, that people were forced into them, that they were violent, and made to keep the Districts submissive. He knows that his parents were in them. He knows that you two pretty much started the rebellion after your Games and that his father died protecting you during a siege of the Capitol. There are a lot of details that he doesn't know yet. How violent the Capitol was, the things they did to keep people quiet," Annie clenches her fist, willing herself to continue, fighting another relapse. "How old the people were who fought in the Games, how there was only one victor."

I nod, swallowing hard, thinking about having to relay all those bloody details to her.

"I promise, though, you'll know when she's ready. She may have to know more of it all earlier than he did, or maybe she won't be ready to know any of it until she's grown. Just listen to her."

I nod, reaching over and smoothing her silky, dark hair. She looks at me and squeaks, happy and untroubled. My vision blurs as tears well up in my eyes. I don't want to change how unburdened she is.

"I just wish I didn't have to ruin how happy she is not knowing." I watch her kick her chubby legs as I play with her hair.

"See, that's how you'll know when to tell her. Killian is happier now knowing what he does. He knew there were things I wasn't telling him and it bothered him. He wanted to help me. One day, she'll  _want_  to know. That's when you tell her. You just have to listen out for it. She won't think it's a burden. Trust me, she'll be far more worried about you two than herself."

I can do nothing but nod and pray that Annie is right. Even though I hate that my daughter should have any reason to worry about her parents. I reach over and gather her out of Peeta's arms. He doesn't protest, understanding my need to hold her close. I nearly cry when she burrows into me so quickly and so readily. She trusts me so utterly. Already, she loves me unquestioningly. Peeta and I both are the font of security and knowledge and love for her. It hurts that she trusts me so when I am sure to mess her up eventually, sure to transfer some of my mental and emotional scars to her. I curl over her a little, protectively, and kiss the top of her head. She just rests her cheek on my breastbone, sleepy and content.

"It's alright," Annie murmurs, aware of my thought process. "You'll worry all the time if you're doing things right or if you're going to mess it up. And then things will work themselves out. Life will go on, the world will keep spinning, and before you know it, she'll be grown and you'll wonder what happened to the time and how she got to be so capable and how she got this personality that's just  _her._ Just try to enjoy it if you can. It'll fly by."

I nod again, knowing it will be hard for me to enjoy it when all I want is to do right by her. But Annie has obviously done so well with Killian. I watch him grin and converse happily and politely with my mother. I can only hope that Iris grows up half as happy as he is. And I will make sure she comes through with as few of my problems as possible. I owe it to her to give her as much of a real childhood as possible. I have to try my best to be worthy of the trust she's put in me. I clutch her to me, determined. Peeta chuckles. He can see the resolve in my eyes.

"And you worry about being a good parent," he smiles.

I scoff at him before leaning against him, exhausted even at this early hour. It's been a taxing few days. I fall asleep here on the beach in District 4, my mother smiling across from me, Annie contentedly staring off into space at my left, Killian scampering all around, Peeta calm and loving and steady next to me, and my daughter small, and sweet, and trusting, asleep against my chest.


	10. Chapter 10

I learn, as time goes on, that Iris's presence frightens me to death, comforts me, and breathes life into our house all at once. The first time she smiles at us,  _really_  smiles, not strange infant movements that look like smiling, I laugh and smile back and immediately have to start making my list in my head of every good act I've seen people do. It is  _because_  she brings me joy that she frightens me. Peeta is just as overwhelmed, although he doesn't have the same chronic anxiety that I do. He is overwhelmed in a different sense. The sense of being overcome that people have when they finally get something they've wanted all their lives is what claims Peeta now. I still don't think he can believe that she's real. Overjoyed disbelief and shock is written on his face and in his eyes with that first smile, as she looks up at us from her cradle, chubby cheeks dimpled and blue eyes bright in her toothless, infant smile. From that day forward, Peeta starts recording all of her firsts in our book, noting the date and time, and often sketching a little picture of her.

Even sullen Haymitch is as hopelessly in love with her as we are. We see a lot more of him now. Of course he always drinks, and more often than not is passed out somewhere in his house. But now he's lured out from time to time. Sometimes he just sits with us in our kitchen, listening to her squeak and babble. Sometimes, though, he holds her like we do. Iris in one arm, liquor bottle in the other. We make sure he's sober enough to support her before we hand her over, and make sure to take her back when the level of liquid in his bottle gets too low. He always growls sarcastic commentary to her on the goings on around the house, or on us, as if trying to teach her the truth about the world.

"See, no. No. Drooling like that in public makes you look slow, like your father. No more of that."

"Okay, now watch it when your mother makes that face. She's highly unstable. Best to hide when she does that. Run if she's armed."

We huff at the commentary, but we're all secretly happy under the pretense. I keep making my internal list, Peeta keeps recording in the book.

First time she can sit up on her own. Peeta props her up to look at some of the orange cookies he's just iced, knowing that she likes that particular shade of orange. She waves her little arms, and tilts forward a bit, holding herself up without his hand behind her back. She doesn't last very long and eventually wobbles backwards into his arms. But she holds herself up for a bit, all the same.

"Katniss, did you see what she did?" he exclaims, beside himself with glee.

I smile, keeping the running list. "I did. You sat up," I tell her. She stares at me and gurgles, accomplished.

First time she reaches out and is able to grasp something on her own. I have to tell Peeta about it when I get back home as it happens out in the woods. I'm sitting in a tree with her, idly spinning one of my arrows in my right hand. She's tracking it as it spins, eyes darting around and around with it. She's big enough now that she can support her own head and she now sits with her back strapped to me, looking out. She shakily reaches for the arrow. I can feel my own eyebrows raise.

"You want this?"

She squawks, reaching more.

"You know, most children go for blocks or something first."

She squeals louder, indignant.

"Maybe you really are mine," I joke at her. "Guess I can't get rid of you now. The kid that plays with arrows is too obvious."

I stop teasing her and point the nock towards her, making sure to keep the point far away from her at the other end, enclosed lightly in my hand. She grasps the end tightly, black fletching poking through her enclosed, tiny, pink fingers. She bounces her fist up and down, watching the shaft of the arrow move with her. She releases it and grasps it further up before putting the end with the fletching on it in her mouth, gnawing it with her gums. I let her for a moment before thinking better of it.

"You know, that's probably not sanitary. Let's not chew on the arrow," I tell her as I gently pull it away from her. The feathered fletching at the end is now drenched, strands of feather clumping together. The arrow is still connected to her mouth by a thin little strand of drool.

"Ew."

Iris squeaks happily, proud.

First time she rolls over on her own. She's on a pile of smoothed out blankets on the floor, lying on her belly, lifting her head and shoulders up and watching us as we walk around. She has disinterestedly discarded the few toys we have scattered about her blanket. She watches Peeta pass by with a handful of those icing flowers he makes to decorate cakes. As he passes behind her, out of her view, she deftly flips over in one try to follow him, landing on her back with a little, cushioned thud. She lays there for a minute, eyes wide, surprised at her own agility. Peeta gasps happily, smiling.

"Can you do it again?" he picks her up and puts her back on her stomach. She burbles and flips again, grinning up at him.

The first time she laughs. She's on her pile of blankets again. I'm cleaning game at the table. Peeta is trying not to look disgusted as I skin a squirrel. He whips up icing at the far end of the table, as far as he can get from my skinning knife. Haymitch stumbles in, turning up early for lunch as he does often lately. Iris's happy babbling and Peeta's cooking are enough to lure him out of his house for a few hours. As soon as he staggers in, Iris giggles wildly at him. We all stop to stare at her.

"She done that before?" Haymitch growls, questioning.

"No!" Peeta exclaims, giggling almost as much as she. "This is the first time!"

He rushes over, kneeling by the blanket. I watch, knife frozen. Haymitch puts his arms out, palms up, at her. "What?" he sneers and she explodes into high-pitched, infant cackling.

"Is Haymitch funny?" Peeta giggles at her. Haymitch staggers in further, rolling his eyes, taking a swig from his bottle. She laughs even harder and now I can't even contain it. I start cackling with her. My child's first laugh is at the expense of my old, drunk mentor. I cackle with her each time she laughs, which is pretty much every time Haymitch so much as raises an eyebrow.

"Good god, you two even sound the same," Haymitch mutters, and he's right. Even as high-pitched and squeaky as it is, Iris cackles like I do. I put my forehead down on the table, doubled over in silent laughter, scrambling to make my list, afraid to laugh without it being taken away.

The first time she recognizes her own name. Peeta is trying to get her to look at him as he paints. She's sitting with me, little back to me as always.

"Look this way. No, this way. Iris-"

Her little head turns sharply towards him. We both freeze. I try it.

"Iris."

Her head tilts back shakily, little blue eyes staring at me, upside down.

"You know your name now," I tell her, disbelieving.

"Iris," Peeta says, and she looks towards him, squawking like she does, tired of us both asking for her attention. "Okay, I'm sorry, we'll stop," he laughs. I can't do anything but kiss the top of her head, closing my eyes.

The first time she crawls. It's in the evening and she's playing on her pile of blankets once more. One moment, she's wriggling around on her stomach, the next, she's pushed her little body up on her hands and knees. We figure she's just going to stay there and wriggle around for a week before she figures out she can move forward, like most babies do. But not Iris. She has no middle step. She wriggles for a second, testing everything out, and then she's wobbling off the blanket on her hands and knees. She clambers around the table and stops right at Peeta's foot, looking up at him, squeaking. He stands stock still like me, eyes like saucers. She pitches forward and he finally reacts, scooping her up. The day after that is the first day I can't get out of bed before I've made my list for at least an hour. And we're running to catch up with her from then on.

I start learning things about her, learning what she's like. The first thing I learn about her is that she's unquenchably curious. Iris has to know everything about everything. I suspected this watching her even when she was only a few minutes old. Always looking around, trying to take everything in. Now that she's mobile, she has to touch everything. First, we learn to pad all sharp corners in the house. Iris moves quickly and somewhat erratically and often runs into things. The first time she runs headlong into a table leg, I'm frightened out of my mind hearing her cries behind me. She's immediately in my arms. I dry her tiny tears with the pad of my thumb while Peeta bandages the little scrape on her forehead. Haymitch unhelpfully asks a few collisions later, "Do you think maybe she's afflicted? She runs into things an awful lot. Didn't inherit mom's coordination, did ya, kid?"

We scowl and pad everything at baby-level.

After Iris tips over a full bottle of Haymitch's expensive white liquor, Peeta gives her a bath to get the alcohol smell off of her, and I comb the house, getting everything she could get into off the floor. It prevents some mishaps and some of the crying. Although, she never cries for very long. That is the second thing I learn about her. Iris is tough. All babies cry and she is no exception, but her crying is seldom and she bounces back quickly. She picks herself back up easily. There's a sharp bit of crying from initial shock, a split second of contact from me, or a flash of full-out coddling from Peeta, and then she's wriggling, anxious to get moving again. I think Peeta wishes he could coddle her more. She does enjoy the attention, especially from Peeta, but when she's ready to move, no one can stop her.

That is the third thing I learn about her. Iris is as stubborn as I am. Of all the characteristics to inherit from me. If Iris is unhappy, everyone knows. If she doesn't want to do something, she'll fight to avoid it. She lands a decent kick on my cheekbone on a day that she is particularly adamant about not wearing her socks as she wriggles and screams. Though, to her credit, she stops when I freeze and stare her down. She quiets immediately, doesn't look at me, and allows me to put on her socks with no further protest. I know from then on that she's also inherited some of my sense of self-preservation.

If we're holding her and she wants to be clambering around the house, crawling, she'll squirm until we let her down. A few times, she bucks backwards and Peeta and I, whoever has her at the time, almost drop her. But this stubbornness also gives way to a good determination. There is one day that Iris does not rest until she has managed to drag herself upright, clutching the edge of one of our kitchen chairs for dear life. She starts dragging herself around the house like this, running along any steady furniture edge she can find, clutching it with little, pink fingers. Peeta takes to walking her around the house, leaning over, holding her two tiny hands. I like listening to the things he says to her, encouraging her as she unsteadily toddles around with him.

"Come on, let's keep going. Let's go into the studio, okay? You're doing so well, come on."

She grins up at him, cooing, lifting her legs in odd, acute angles like a little frog. Sometimes, when she stumbles, and she whimpers, he holds her up, and murmurs kind words to her.

"It's alright. Learning to walk is hard. I know. I've had some trouble with it, too. But you can do it, come on."

It was worth telling Peeta yes just to be able to watch him with her. I think Peeta may be the best father in the history of the world. He's perfect. He's unwaveringly patient with her. He doesn't seem capable of getting frazzled on nights when she cries for hours on end, whereas I do tend to waver as the night goes on and I can't figure out what's bothering her. He talks to her constantly, trying to teach her everything he can as he goes about his day with her. And he loves her so strongly it's near-painful for me to watch. I often wonder what my daughter thinks of me, especially when she has someone as attentive as Peeta around. Of course I take care of her, I talk to her a lot in the woods. I don't like to think too much about how important she is to me in order to avoid a break-down. But I also know that I am, by nature, a lot quieter and colder than Peeta. I am not naturally nurturing, only protective. I sigh and hope that she doesn't think I'm too distant with her.

This is why I am not surprised when she speaks her first word. She's been babbling syllables for a long while, mimicking Peeta, and sometimes me. But today is different. I'm putting cut blueberries I found out in the woods in front of her. I've cut them so small that they're nearly mush so that she can eat them. She's getting big enough that it's difficult to hunt with her, so on days she stays home, I try to bring her something back from outside. I'm pretty sure blueberries are a favorite, although I'm not so much a fan of them because we have to clean purple juice-stains off of her every time she eats them. She's not the most graceful of babies, and eating is no exception. She gets the stuff everywhere. Peeta walks over to gather the remaining berries to put them in some sort of sweet bread he's concocting. She watches him gather them up, mouth open, the two teeth she has at the bottom sticking out a bit. He chuckles at her.

"Look at you, you're already purple. And how did you get berry juice on your forehead?"

"Talent," I mutter.

He attempts to clean some of the juice off of her with his thumb. She stares at him for a moment before squeaking, "Daa-dee," clearly and simply. Peeta freezes, eyes wide.

"You hear that, Daddy?" I ask him, enjoying watching his reaction. I watch his eyes shine. She repeats it, pointing at him with clumsy fingers. That's when the tears start, which I was expecting. Peeta has that baby in his arms in seconds flat. He's crying and rocking her and she just smiles when he kisses her cheek and repeats the one word she knows. I put my head in my hands, smiling and gritting my teeth.

There is a day every year that I cannot get out of bed. On the good years, Peeta brings me breakfast, lunch, and dinner to my room. On the bad ones, he can barely leave the room because I need him there to prevent me from breaking in half. It is normally the only day of the year that I cry. I know I am not the only one who hates this day. There are so many like me who lost people on this day. I sit in my room and wish the day would end so I can stop seeing exploding parachutes behind my eyes, stop remembering blue eyes and two long, blonde braids, and a little shirt sticking out of an equally tiny skirt like a duck tail. This is the first year with Iris in the house with us. This year Peeta has to leave, and so do I, to be able to take care of her. I force myself out of bed. I'm shaking and the tears are already flowing as I follow him to the door. Peeta shakes his head.

"No, Katniss, get back in bed."

"No. I can't let you by your-"

"Yes. Come on," he leads me back over to our bed, puts me in it, draws the quilt up to my shoulders. "We'll be fine by ourselves," he assures me quietly.

"Promise me you'll come get me if you need help or she needs something."

"I promise. But I think we'll be alright on our own. I'll bring you breakfast soon."

He sadly kisses my forehead, and smoothes my hair back a little, and makes sure I have a handkerchief in my hand before he leaves.

This is always the longest day of the year. If I fall asleep, I wake up from a nightmare. If I stay awake, my consciousness is a waking one. Peeta always makes my favorite foods on this day of the year, in a feeble attempt to make it a little better. He never makes it in high volumes, though, because he knows there's a good possibility that it'll remain untouched, getting cold on the bedside table. This year, I try to eat a little, just because I know I should. Everything tastes dry and papery in my mouth. I cry myself back to sleep in mid-morning, only to wake up in the afternoon thrashing about, legs tangled in my bed sheets. I hear Iris crying downstairs and feel immensely guilty in addition to the crushing ache I feel every year on this day. I comfort myself with the fact that she'll stop soon, thankful that she's a tough little thing and will probably be crawling around by Peeta in minutes. Except she doesn't. She keeps crying. She hasn't cried this long since she was only a few weeks old. I hear Peeta trying doggedly to calm her, can hear his warm voice murmuring to her. But she doesn't quiet. She keeps going, for at least an hour. I don't know how long she was crying when I was asleep. She always calms down for Peeta. It's me who can't calm her sometimes. There must be something wrong and Peeta, trying so hard to make this day as easy as possible for me, won't come tell me. My limbs feel like lead, like they're glued to my mattress, but I move them anyway. I can't leave him alone with her. I drag myself down the hall, head hanging. I clutch the rail by the stairs like it's a lifeline, but I force myself down the stairs.

I hear her cries get louder as I continue. She keeps saying something through the high-pitched crying. It may be nonsense syllables, but I go ahead and assume it's "daddy," since it's all she knows. She's probably sick, repeating that word over and over, trying to tell him that she feels bad. I've rounded the corner into the kitchen when I distinguish the word she's been repeating over and over.

"Mama," she wails, red-faced, at Peeta. I stop dead, mouth drying instantly.

"I know, I know. You've never gone a day without seeing her, have you? But mama doesn't feel well today, sweetheart," he rocks her sadly. She doesn't relent. She shakes her little head wildly, dark hair like mine shaking with her.

"Mamaaaa," she whines, trailing off into little infant sobs.

"You'll see her tomorrow, little one. But today we need to let her rest. I'm sorry."

He hugs her to him and keeps drying the tears that won't stop. I keep hearing her repeat it, muffled into Peeta's shoulder.

"Mama, I know, I know. I'm worried about her, too." He keeps bouncing her lightly, swaying back and forth.

I lean against the doorframe of the kitchen as that child nearly breaks my heart in two and I cry with her. There is no other day of the year that she could've terrified me so utterly as today. To ask for me when she's never even uttered that word before, and to make it so devastatingly clear how important I am in her little world. To make me remember with a painful sharpness the only other person I've loved this much. She raises her little head from Peeta's shoulder to look at him again. And then she notices me. She squeaks urgently.

"Mama!"

She reaches for me with tiny, wobbly arms. Peeta starts and turns around. His face softens when he sees me sobbing in the doorway.

"She's been saying it since she woke up this morning," he tells me with a sad smile.

"You should've come to get me," I sputter.

"I didn't know how well you would handle it today. You don't seem to be doing so well right now. I was worried about you."

"I'll be fine," I hiccup. As hard as it is for me to even leave my bedroom on this day, it would be harder to watch Iris turn her worried, sad little blue eyes on me and not do anything. She keeps twisting in Peeta's arms, pointing at me and reaching at me. Her thrashing little movement, I've noticed, has made the tail of her little baby shirt pull free. As if the universe is trying to tell me. I would never have left Prim if she needed me. And I shouldn't, and won't, leave her. Prim herself would probably scold me to no end if she found out that I had even stayed in my room for ten minutes while she cried. I cross the room towards her and she keeps repeating her second word, desperate, still red-faced and crying. She makes a muffled little squeal when I finally reach her. I gather her out of Peeta's arms. She buries her tear-covered face in my neck, still wailing.

"Mama," she whimpers, tiny fist clenched around a handful of my shirt.

"Hey, little duck," I murmur to her.

I don't say anything else. I just tuck in the tail of her shirt and sing the same song I've been singing to her since before she was born. Her wailing slows into the little kitten mewls she does. Her hand stays clenched around my shirt.

That is another thing I learn about Iris. No matter how tough she seems, she gets frightened easily where the people she loves are concerned. Like me.

I am shocked when I realize that her first birthday is approaching quickly.

"Peeta. Her birthday. It's in two weeks."

We stare at each other, silent, wide-eyed. Iris lies on her blankets, blissfully oblivious, gnawing on an old, wooden toy I still have from my childhood. I suppose this is what Annie meant when she said everything would fly by. I have just gotten used to my tiny, ruddy, fuzzy, velvet baby and now she's nearly walking. It's been almost a year since I looked down, vision hazy from exhaustion, to see her wailing, lying on my stomach, red-faced and grayish and slippery. Peeta shakes his head, disbelieving. Iris gurgles "daddy," grinning a two-toothed grin at him, upside down. Peeta smiles wistfully back.

"What should we get you for your birthday, Iris?"

"More things to drool on," I provide flatly. Peeta giggles. I crack a smile, too.

"We can each give her something," Peeta suggests, blue eyes brightening like Iris's do sometimes at the prospect. He is obviously unbearably excited about finding something that Iris will appreciate. But I am as well. It's an old tradition in District 12 to put a lot of effort in finding a gift for someone you love that is as meaningful and thoughtful as possible. In a District where starvation used to be uncomfortably acute, the meaning of the gift was always of greater importance than the amount of money spent in acquiring it. I remember being appalled in the Capitol at how expensive trinkets were thrown around, and considered acceptable gifts when little to no thought was put into it. Often people made their gifts themselves. My mother making a dress for Prim for her seventh birthday. My father and Prim together stitching a shooting glove for me when I was young and just learning to shoot. Some of the best gifts a person could give weren't material at all. My father showing me his lake. Prim singing to me in her wavering little voice every birthday. I smile to myself. But I wonder, as small as she is, what Iris would truly appreciate. I think about the things I know she likes. Water. The little wooden cat she chews on now. Colors. Blueberries. Toddling around with Peeta. The lake and the woods. Being with us. I suppose any and all of those things would make her happy.

In the next week, Peeta starts planning a little birthday for her. I tell him we should take her outside for a bit. I can't take her as often as I used to. If she's anything like me, she misses it. He nods agreeing with me. He asks if we preserved any of the blueberries I found just before the first cold snap in the fall. We find a little handful of them, dried and sugared, in our pantry. I have a carving knife in my hand all week. Iris only has a small handful of toys, three or four at most. While I am not of the opinion that she needs a whole chest full of them, like I saw in a few houses we passed through in the Capitol during the siege, a few that she really loves would be nice. I had one I carried with me all the time, the same little cat she chews on all the time. My father carved it when I could scarcely walk. She has a few others, things we picked up around town. A wooden block with the letter "I" on it. A ring made out of rags and tight knots for her to chew on when teeth are coming in. A small, stuffed doll, barely bigger than my hand, similar to the one Prim used to drag around with her. But the one she loves is the little cat. It's scratched up, the tiny carved face worn down with age. The wood is constantly soggy from her infant gnawing. I think she likes it because it's small, it's easy to hold, and it's more interesting than a plain wooden block, or a teething ring. So I work trying to make something like it. Peeta watches me one night as I add details, a little pile of curly, dusty shavings at my elbow.

"You're really good at that."

I shrug. "We used to have to make all of our household tools. Spoons and combs and things. Sometimes things as big as bowls and plates. My father carved the bow I use."

"You could've made that your talent on our tour," he smiles. I think he's excited, from an artist's standpoint, that I show some trace of artistic talent that he didn't know I possessed.

"But it was easier to piggy back off of Cinna. And I didn't really want to share anything like that with the Capitol."

"True. If Portia had let me copy her, I might have. But I'm impressed. I've never been good at carving or sculpting. I'm a bit jealous."

"Peeta, you're an artist for a living. This doesn't come close to the stuff you've made."

"Sure it does. It's done with love."

I roll my eyes, but I smile just the same.

Iris's birthday is a pleasantly warm, temperate day, just like last year. Only last year I was waddling about the house, keyed up and nervous, and twice as round as I was tall. I decide like this a lot better. We cross the hall together to wake Iris. We moved her into her room across the hall when she was around five months old, having outgrown the tiny cradle. She blinks sleepy blue eyes and yawns widely. Peeta gathers her up, grinning.

"It's your birthday, Iris. You're one today, did you know that?"

She yawns again and sleepily peeps one out of four words she knows, which is unintentionally appropriate.

"Cake."

Peeta laughs.

"Smart girl. You'll get cake later, but let's get breakfast first."

I follow Peeta and Iris downstairs. He's already got the oven on. He must've slipped downstairs and put breakfast in before I woke up. I smell sugar and blueberries. If I'm excited about breakfast, Iris must be elated. She proves me right, chirping happily when she smells it. The stuff turns out to be blueberry cobbler. It'll be sweet, and the inside, full of soft blueberries and mushy crust, will be easy for her to eat. She cheerfully makes a mess of it almost immediately. While Peeta goes to find a spoon to feed her with, she beats him to the punch, grabbing a fistful of of the blueberry mush and stuffing it in her mouth, succeeding in getting at least half of said handful on her face and her shirt.

"Don't bother, Peeta," I groan. We are both tired of cleaning purple stains out of her shirts. But if there's a day she should be able to stain everything she's wearing, it's today. We let her happily feed herself, getting it absolutely everywhere. She's messy enough by the time she's done that we have to give her a bath and re-dress her. Iris just giggles about it all. She relishes getting messy. I foresee a lot of grass stains and mud puddles in our future. I make a mental note not to dress her in white again until she's at least fifteen when she'll have the presence of mind not to stain all of her clothes.

Once she's clean and dressed again, we head outside with her. We spot Haymitch stumbling around the pen where he keeps his geese. He waves us over wordlessly.

"Happy birthday, little bugger," he growls at Iris with a thin smile.

"Haymitch, don't teach her that word," Peeta admonishes. Haymitch grins wickedly.

"Don't encourage him," I tell Peeta. "He'd love for her to start repeating that word and I'd rather not hear it parroted around our house for the next week."

"Both of you shut up and bring the kid over here. Sit down on the porch with her."

"Why?"

"Just do it," Haymitch sneers at me. I do sit with Iris in my lap, against my better judgement. Haymitch staggers over to us with something cupped between his enclosed palms, one hand on top of the other. He kneels down by Iris and opens them. A fuzzy yellow and black gosling pops out, sitting wriggly but content, in his palm. Iris stares for a moment, unsure what to make of the little thing. She tentatively reaches a wavering, chubby hand towards it. Haymitch takes her hand, steadying it, and runs it over the gosling's downy head. Iris squeals happily, giggling.

"Hatched this morning. He's got the same birthday as you, kid," Haymitch tells her. She continues to grin, looking between him and the gosling.

"She likes him," Peeta smiles. And indeed she does. Iris is beside herself over the gosling. She won't stop grinning. The next thing I know, I'm sitting cross-legged on the porch, Iris still in my lap, with a bumbling gaggle of the gosling's brothers and sisters waddling around me. I let one nibble playfully on my finger, my other hand making sure Iris is contained enough that her wild, gleeful movements don't catch any stray goslings. Peeta seems nearly as immersed as she. He's got one of them padding around on his leg, little black, webbed feet splayed. He keeps picking them up and putting them in front of Iris. At one point, I make sure to hold her hands as he puts one in her lap. She squeals and the gosling feebly honks back, clambering around on her chubby legs. Eventually, Haymitch rounds all the little goslings back up, putting them back in their pen. Iris looks mildly upset that the goslings are gone, but Haymitch still has the one in his hand, so she's content. In her excitement, she points to the gosling and peeps, "cake!" for the second time today. Haymitch laughs a loud, wheezing laugh.

"It's one of the only words she knows," I explain, defending her.

"No, that's a goose, Iris. Goose," Peeta tells her.

"Cake!"

"Is that what we should name him?" Haymitch asks her, still wheezing with laughter.

"Cake!"

"Guess so. We'll call this one Cake," he rasps, pointing to the gosling. Iris grins. We get up to continue towards the woods with Iris. She gives the gosling a final giggle and Peeta smiles at Haymitch.

"Thank you, Haymitch. That was really nice."

"I thought she'd like them," he grumbles grudgingly.

"She did," I smile. "Thanks."

He nods once and we're off to the woods with her. I take her to the lake. It looks the same as it did last year. Plants all getting ready to blossom, water peaceful and glittering in the sun. The same rogue iris plant from last year has gone ahead and blossomed early. I can't help but smile when I see it. I sit down with her in the grass, near the waterline, right next to it. I pluck one of the petals and hold it next to her eyes.

"Yup. Still just as blue," I smile at her. Iris likes the color of the plant she was named for. She watches the petal as I hold it up to her.

"Do you mind if I give her her present now?" Peeta asks.

"Go ahead," I tell him, curious. Peeta pulls out a sketchpad from the bag we brought. But it's a different sort of one than I usually see him with. The paper is thick, the sheets are large. He pulls out a set of little, covered bowls.

"What is it?" I ask as he begins uncovering them.

He smiles.

"Edible paint."

"She's going to go ballistic. It's perfect."

"I knew she'd end up trying to eat it, so I figured I'd make it taste good. It's a good thing you dressed her in brown. Iris come here, look at this."

Peeta lifts her into his lap, propping the sketch pad, which I realize is filled with thick, absorbent paper used for water-based paints, in front of both of them.

"Will you fill this with water?" he asks, holding up a lone, empty bowl. I oblige, filling it half-way with lake water.

"Iris, watch." He dips her pudgy hand in a bowl of bright orange, her favorite color. He presses her hand against the paper for a moment, and then peels it away. She stares, open-mouthed, as an orange handprint is revealed. He puts her hand in water, rinsing it, before dipping it in red. Iris loves warm colors. He puts another handprint on, overlapping the orange a little. She squeals when he moves her hand, revealing a second, scarlet handprint, and a red-orange section where the handprints overlap.

"You like it?" he grins at her. She babbles at him, elated. She chirps "daddy," somewhere in there. The subsequent hour is a free-for-all. Iris paints with abandon, smearing paint everywhere. Most gets on the page, but a decent amount gets on her face, on her clothes (as always), and some on Peeta's pants. He patiently grimaces at the purple and red that ends up on them. She gets frustrated at first when she mixes too many colors on the paper and it all turns brown. Peeta patiently turns over that page, showing her a fresh piece of paper. She learns quickly. That's another thing about her. Iris is quick-witted. She figures things out as she goes and does it with lightning speed. She learns that some colors, when mixed, transform into new ones. She learns which ones compliment each other. My favorite page in her little book is an infant smear of greens and blues. Her baby-art isn't half bad. She's quite creative until she puts her hands in her mouth and realizes the paint tastes good. Then, she proceeds to eat most of the rest of it. Peeta giggles the whole time as she abandons her craft and crams paint-covered fingers in her mouth. Peeta manages to wrestle it away from her before she makes herself sick. She squawks the fourth and final word she knows.

"No."

"Sorry, paint-time is over. No exceptions," Peeta insists.

"No!"

"Yes," I grumble. "I'm not cleaning vomit out of your clothes in addition to paint."

_"No!"_

"Come here, you," I growl, snatching her out of Peeta's arms and away from the paints. She's on the verge of a tantrum when I give her what Peeta calls "the look." He says it's the same look I have when I'm tracking game, when I'm about to shoot, or when I've been challenged. I assume it's the same look Haymitch warned her about. I don't really know what it looks like, but Peeta says my chin juts up, my lips thin out, my teeth clench, and my eyes, as he put it, are like steel. Iris gives me a few half-hearted whimpers, but she quells the tantrum. Peeta laughs.

"You're a good mother, but a scary one sometimes."

"Sorry," I mutter.

"No, it's a good thing. She'd be all over the place if you weren't here."

"Come on," I tell her. "You're supposed to be having fun, not having tantrums."

I suddenly have an idea. I think Iris likes water. But other than shallow baths in our kitchen sink, she hasn't been exposed to it much.

"We're going swimming," I tell her. I toe off my boots. Peeta's eyebrows shoot up when I sit her down for a minute and strip down to my underwear. Even having lived with him for sixteen years, I'm still a fairly modest person. But today I don't care. Today is supposed to be a good day and I'm going to make sure it stays that way. I peel off Iris's paint-covered shirt, leaving her in her little trousers. She's still whimpering as I start walking towards the water with her sitting on my hip.

"You coming or not?" I ask Peeta. He's jarred into motion by my question and he follows soon after, also in his underclothes. I wade into the water, stopping at waist-height. Iris's whimpers have stopped. Instead she stares, wide-eyed, all around.

"See? There are better things to do than eat paint," I say. Peeta comes up behind us.

"Does she like it?"

"I'm not sure. She seems more shocked than anything else. What happened to my little tadpole?" I ask her.

"Come on, Iris, you like water. Look," Peeta splashes around her playfully. She blinks a few times before a hesitant smile creeps onto her face.

"That's it. Quit worrying about the paint and have fun in the lake," I tell her. She is fascinated by it, although sometimes I'm not sure if she likes it or not. I suppose it's a little too much unknown for her to take in sometimes. She squeaks when a few stray minnows dart around her feet, smiling. A few tickle my leg, too, and I smile with her. Eventually, she gets used to it and she's waving her little hands around in the water, watching it move. Although I know it is the unintentional product of her waving her clumsy little fists, she manages to splash me straight in the face once. She giggles wildly as I cough and shake my head, my hair now dripping.

"Oh, that's funny?"

She keeps giggling at me as water drips into my eyes from my hair. I gently dump a handful of water over her dark little head. It's not much, as I don't want to scare her. She sputters a little, blinking rapidly, lightly startled. Drops of water cling to her soft little eyelashes. She seems annoyed that I've retaliated. I can't help but start laughing at the clear indigence on her tiny face. She joins me after a few hesitant giggles. She shrieks that high, infant cackle she does. She continues to send splashing water my way now that she's figured out how to do it. I always flick a little bit back at her, although I'm always careful not to go overboard and frighten her. Peeta watches us, looking as if his face will crack in two, he's grinning so hard. I suppose I look similar when Iris's laughing slows and she just stares straight through me, grinning like mad, corners of her little blue eyes wrinkled as they twinkle like Peeta's do. She tangles her clumsy fingers midway up my braid, pulling herself a little closer to me.

"Mama," she chirps, another stray giggle escaping her. She doesn't stop smiling, showing her two tiny teeth on the bottom.

"Yeah, I'm having fun, too," I assure her, still a bit overwhelmed by the amount of trust and love in her eyes. She giggles at me once more, round, happy face still staring. We all stay in the lake until Iris gets a little waterlogged. We climb out and lie in the tall grass, letting the sun's gentle heat dry us. I make sure not to let Iris stay in direct sunlight for too long, though, for fear that even gentle, early-spring sun like this might burn her soft skin. Peeta dozes off for a while, a smile on his face even in sleep, obviously elated. I let him as I watch the sky turn from blue to that same orange he loves. Iris giggles at him as a fly buzzes around him lazily and his nose twitches in sleep. She points to him, squeaking "Daddy" as she often does, looking back at me for reassurance.

"That's right."

She turns her little finger towards me.

"Mama."

I suppose she wants to make sure I know she understands.

"Very good. And you," I pause to pluck a blossom off that one, rogue iris plant right next to us, "are Iris." I show her the bright blue blossom. She looks up at me when she hears her name.

"Iris," I repeat. "That's you," I point at her. She sits, looking at me for a moment before she clumsily points to herself.

"That's right, my smart little duck."

Peeta smiles wider, obviously drifting out of unconsciousness.

"She is a smart little thing, isn't she?"

"She is. Good thing, too, because it would've been highly annoying if you were dull," I joke at her. Peeta laughs. Iris gets a little bored with us and starts plucking petals off the iris blossom I'm still holding.

"Hey, I have something better for you to play with," I tell her. Peeta sits up, interest piqued. I reach in each of my pockets and pull out what I've been working on for the past two weeks. Two little carved toys, the same basic size as the little cat she loves, each standing about the height of my palm. Only, I've carved these both out of bone from a buck I managed to bring down a few weeks ago. I figure it'll last longer than wood, and it'll definitely avoid getting soggy like the little cat, which will make it easier to clean. Plus, I'm paranoid that her chewing on that little cat will result in splinters. The first is a tiny, wide-eyed tree frog that lives around here, the kind my father used to call a spring peeper, named for the chirping sounds they make. It has round eyes, and small, spread-out feet that nearly look like hands. The carved frog sits in my palm, back legs folded under, front feet splayed flat, looking curiously with bright eyes. The other is a fuzzy duckling, with small webbed feet just like the goslings we saw earlier today. It stands as if having stopped mid-waddle, legs far apart and clumsy, wings folded, little, curved neck extended as curiously as the little frog. And it's got a little, curly tail sticking out in the back. I place one on each of her chubby legs.

"For my little tadpole," I set the frog down, and then the duckling, "and my little duck."

She stares at them for a moment before taking one in each hand. She immediately pops the frog's head in her mouth as she stares at the duckling, waving it around in her other fist.

"I think they're a hit," Peeta chuckles. "They're beautifully done."

I just smile, watching her switch the two as she gnaws on a carved, webbed foot and clutches the frog for dear life. She eventually dozes off with one in each hand, passed out against the crook of my arm.

"I guess that means she had a good day," I mutter.

"I'm pretty certain she did. We should take her home, though."

"Yeah. Come on, sleepy."

We cart an exhausted Iris back from the woods in a green-blue twilight. We wonder whether to wake her to eat dinner, but we decide against it. She can be terribly volatile when woken up, and she'll likely scream instead of eating, especially as tired as she is. She barely stirs when Peeta lowers her into the crib in her butter-yellow room. We slip quietly out of her room, Peeta's heavier steps before my silent ones. We aren't up for very long after her. Just enough to eat dinner. There's a little cake Peeta made just for Iris. We decide we'll give it to her tomorrow since she fell asleep before she could make a mess of it tonight. Just before we go to bed, I slip silently back in her room. Peeta follows after a minute.

"Katniss? What is it?" he murmurs quietly and a little worriedly as I stand staring down into her crib.

"It's 11:57."

He smiles, understanding. Iris was born at 11:57.

"She's officially a year old, then."

I nod wordlessly. I think back to my hazy memory of her from last year, dulled by exhaustion and left-over pain. A tiny, pink-red, wailing little thing. Her hair is longer now, her skin a lot less ruddy and thin. She's a bit chubbier than she was, small, flopping newborn limbs growing into stockier, toddler ones. But some things are the same as last year. Her face is just as sweet, eyes just as blue. Peeta is still beside me, as close as he can get, still completely in love with her. I was right. He never has looked away from her since the moment he saw her. I am still staring down at her, just as disbelieving. And I am still not aware that I am crying until Peeta dries my tears.

"Can I ask you something?" he asks hesitantly.

"Yes," I answer, wondering what he's hesitant about.

"I know we're only a year in. But, so far...you're glad you said yes. Real or not real?"

I know Peeta doesn't really need to know if this is indeed real. He's only ever asked one more question the same way. I suppose he just likes to ask the important questions this way, just in case. The corner of my mouth twitches up.

"Real."


End file.
